A veil made of shadows, a flutter from night,
The face lies hidden, yet wakes into light.
Black roses bloom in the dark, out of sight,
A scent like a whisper that stirs deep inside.
A whisper of wings, a silken disguise,
They dance and deceive, withdrawing their prize.
What lingers is murmuring, a blurred, distant trace,
A sweet scent that darkness can never embrace.
Shrouded is beauty, the light kept at bay,
While lips faintly shimmer in a face turned away.
The roses, so black, in their silence remain,
A secret that yearns yet bows to restrain.
Oh darkness, enclose what is fleeting and frail,
What stirs in the shadowed depths, silent and pale.
For even in blackness, in longing’s tight snare,
Lies beauty in roses, caught hidden and rare.
