Clammy soil for moribund roses. Raindrops drowning fire. Smokily hissing hostility. Leather garments giving no warmth any longer. November.

Flashing skies and rumbling drums,
grassland bowing to the winds,
hailstones born of bergamot,
the heat takes flight, defeated...

A rose. Just a rose. Simple and plain. And shady. And earthy. And dark. And dewy. And musty. And deep-rooted. And strong... and wow!

Once upon a time soft fairy dust trickled down onto dark shady green to turn into crystal clear chimes. Nobody could ever break this spell.

Drops of garnet on velvety petals. A rose glowing dark at night. Guarding those who dream. In black soil. In black silence. In eternity.