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This black winter rose, died long ago

She's weak and she's withered, all covered in snow

Once she was red in her beauty and glory

Her now wilted petals can tell her long story.

The sun was so fond of her delicate face

And the wind sang a song of her delightful grace

The moon and the stars would dance for her pleasure

And each little child beheld her a treasure.

But winter would come and this she knew well

The bleak and the cold, her own icy hell

She drank the last sunlight, and took a last breath

The following white morning, her wintery death...