Upon the frozen canvas of winter's breath, A tale unfolds, as old as death itself. Of roses, once so full of life and grace, Now mere whispers in the frosty face. These blooms of beauty, in their time so fair, Doth hold within them both life and despair. Their thorns they bear, a symbol of the strife, That is the dance between this fleeting life. Yet even in their prime, they hold a secret, A truth concealed beneath their velvet. For hidden deep within their tender core, Lies blood, the symbol of life's fleeting score. This crimson sap, it flows like veins of earth, A testament to life's most primal birth. It nourishes the roots, it gives them strength, Yet also marks the end, the final length. For when the rose doth wither, turn to dust, Its blood remains, forever it must trust. In frozen earth, it waits for spring's rebirth, To paint the world anew with gentle mirth. Thus, in the frost, the rose finds solace, A paradox of life and death's cold grace. Its beauty frozen, yet alive beneath, A silent hymn to life's ephemeral breath. aidmaMJ6. 1