It Never Forgets

It Never Forgets

Some say the rose remembers,

though silence veils its breath,

it gathers every whisper,

it studies love and death.

Its petals hold a language,

of secrets tightly kept,

of hands that once adored it,

of nights the cold winds wept.

It listens in the garden,

to footsteps drawing near,

it feels the weight of longing,

it knows the shape of fear.

For every touch it answers,

with fragrance soft and deep,

yet in its guarded stillness,

old shadows start to seep.

It does not lose its memory,

though seasons strip it bare,

each thorn a quiet warning,

of all that lingered there.

The morning finds it glowing,

as though untouched by pain,

yet roots beneath are clinging,

to every drop of rain.

And those who try to claim it,

as beauty pure and kind,

will never see the story,

that coils beneath its mind.

Some say the rose remembers,

and truth will not depart,

for what it holds in silence,

is written in its heart.

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