In the garden of life, where blossoms awake,
A black rose was born, in beauty's own sake.
Her petals were velvet, her stem, pure grace,
In the morning light, she found her place.
As seasons danced on, the sun kissed her face,
She stood tall and proud, in that sacred space.
But life is a whisper, a fragile refrain,
And beauty, it seems, is married to pain.
Her petals turned dark, from crimson to night,
As years spun their tale, in shadow and light.
Health's fickle hand, in cruel jest,
Chose the black rose to put to the test.
With each passing moment, the battles were fought,
In the still of the night, in the thoughts she wrought.
Yet, through every thorn, and every deep sigh,
Her spirit remained, refusing to die.
For beauty, true beauty, is more than the bloom,
It's found in the heart, in light through the gloom.
The black rose endures, in strength and in grace,
A testament to the trials we all must face.
Though petals may fall, and colors may fade,
The black rose stands firm, unafraid.
In the garden of life, where shadows repose,
Lives the enduring tale of the black rose.
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