It has tender petals,

never has been dry,

always fresh as a daisy.

It blooms with light,

and wants to bring light.

The golden days were its favorite,

where the flower would stretch its petals,

welcoming the wind and the rain,

even when they were not gentle on it.

It absorbs them gracefully,

and returns them as a meadow’s essense.

Till the sun stopped glowing on the petals.

It shined a glint of fire,

burning the rosy petals slowly.

The rose took the blame,

hoping for one more golden day.

Except, the gloomy days took over,

and the petals were too burnt,

they had been let down,

by the one thing, that used to keep them arised.

The heartbroken, deceived rose,

was a fool by blindness.

In the present time,

it awaits in the wind.

The flower is scared to bloom once again,

because the night comes, it closes,

and its dust fades into the air.