In gardens where the morning glows,
Blooms soft and red—the royal rose.
With petals kissed by dawn’s first light,
She opens slow, a pure delight.
A queen among the emerald green,
Her velvet robe, a crimson sheen.
Each thorn she bears, a guarded grace,
A lesson stitched in nature’s lace.
She sways beneath the winds that sigh,
Yet never bows, nor asks us why.
Her scent, a hymn, both wild and sweet,
A fragrant tale beneath our feet.
To lovers’ hands she softly came,
A symbol lit with passion’s flame.
She spoke in silence, bloomed in tears,
And held the weight of longing years.
O gentle rose, with thorns so brave,
You bloom by both the bloom and grave.
In joy, you’re crowned in wedding halls,
In grief, you line the mourning walls.
A thousand poems try to hold
The beauty in your red and gold.
But ink runs dry where you remain,
A muse too deep for words to chain.
Through centuries you’ve walked with kings,
With poets, painters, paupers, wings.
In every soul, you leave a trace,
A whisper carved in time and space.
You bloom in spring, but never fade
From memory, where dreams are laid.
A symbol pure, a thorned delight,
You are the day, and you are night.
So here’s to you, O bloom divine,
With every verse, let your soul shine.
For in your grace, we all suppose,
The heart still whispers… to the rose.