A single tear had fallen

To the cold, barren ground.

No beauty,

No life,

Had ever been found.

Except . . .

For that poor, fleeting soul

Who fell and never got up again.

And the darkness took its toll

Of the battle she did not win.

Slowly, 

She was taken beneath.

Unaware of the beauty

She left behind.

If only she could see,

How bright she really shined.

Through the colorless void

And wearied, cracked soil,

The tear seeped

Deeper in toil

With every coil

Being too small to roil.

It reached for a discarded seed

Of long forgotten memories

That once used to fly

Straight through the air.

Out of the darkness,

Through all gloom and despair,

Rose a flower so elegant and fair.

The beautiful blood-red rose,

Grew alone . . .

Although,

It became so lonely

And it started to cry

For someone . . .

For another

Who would care for it

While it had life.

Soon the sacrifice

The poor soul endured

Raised yet another,

And then a third.

And still more . . .

Till the heavens noticed

And showed compassion—

Reviving the sky, the rain, the wind, . . .

And now the rose stands

In such a brilliant fashion

That Hope . . .

Lives again . . .