The Black Rose

The black rose--
How beautiful yet how miserable!
The long green stem with thorns holds it sturdy.
I watch the bud unfold slightly,
Like a hand that was closed and now is opening.
With no hesitation I touch the stem,
And a long ragged thorn pricks my finger.
I watch the blood trickle down then--
My eye catches the dew--
It glitters in the dawning sun.
There’s no trace of hue.
It is a splendid sight.
Black as the night.
Black--The color of death.
Oh! What a wonderful sound it makes!
Like bells of Heaven sweetly playing,
And as I watch from my place upon the step;
It is as though time has stopped,
And for a brief moment all harmony was torn away.
Laughing at me for a reason not known.
Mocking me as I sit beside thee.
The rain starts to fall suddenly.
I feel it’s melody coming back.
Yet, the sound, like a loud deathly horn, still echoes.
No comfort only pain.
Oh! What a magnificent sight it is--
The black rose--
But as everything lives and everything dies.
Now my black rose is withering away…
Like an angel going to Heaven…
The cancer embodies her.

1999