The White Rose
Pale in the light of the summer moon,
lonely white rider of the winter’s tune,
softly caresses each morning the same,
romance, white rose, could that be your name?
A spark in the eye of the season’s field,
singly touches natures yield
neither blush nor spot, simply pure,
the mark of its beauty shall ever endure.
Standing alone on the threads of time
who is the writer, where is the rhyme?
He's lost among the stars of the night,
for the love of a lady, he's holding tight.
Images play as he walks on and on,
drawn deeper still by a mysterious song.
Guided by passion’s invisible hand,
romance, white rose, the love of a man
Shimmering ripples flow through the grass,
reflections of yesterday, lost in the past.
Stirring to touch a dream where it lies,
to whisper so sweet, brings a tear to my eye.
Still searching to find the source of the song,
the heartbeat gets stronger; it cannot be long.
To embrace the spirit wherever it goes,
could the magic be held in a single white rose?
Pale in the light of the summer moon,
Lonely white rider of the winter’s tune
softly caresses each morning the same,
Love, white rose, could love be your name?
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