A Bed of Dying Roses

A bed of slowly dying roses, wan With paucity of prickles, bright and young Lay dry, gorging on tears that fall upon The earth, but suddenly a maiden sung And with her gentle voice that rose above The clouds, white stags most swift and soft and lithe The roses, dead, arose with strengthened love Like Spring’s first blush, most fair and warm and blithe And then the fair-voiced maiden fled to night Away across the moon and the gold sun And now the roses stand tall with red pride The fair-voiced maiden knows her deed she’s done And whenever blossoms are dying black Frail and faint under death’s tattered wing The maiden of love, o, she will come back And with the voice of love, once more she’ll sing… © 2013 Gleb Zavlanov