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The Rose

The rose, a crimson gash of color
Grows among the rocks and sand
Far off on the distant seashore
Of a foreign, barren land.

Who of us shall go to gather
That which hand of God has sown
'Neath the starry night time's splendor
Amidst the bleak and burning stone.

Though I myself have never seen it
Save in a vague and smoky dream
Still its memory haunts my leisure
Anguish in an scarlet stream...

Some day I shall come to know it,
See its blood-red colors run
Like a crimson flood of starlight
Trapped beneath the summer's sun.

Night, in sapphire shades of darkness
Shrouds the rose in gathered gloom.
But for the stars that glitter brightly
Night would make this life a tomb.

Robert G. Brown 2007-03-21