It was our last time, searching for the fountain of youth in a field of cotton, we swore to leave it alone. Instead we found the immaculate rose.
This was the the burning bush…
It was the forbidden flower…
It was mysterious, a freak of nature…
A black rose…
It’s thorns were like gray soot, they reflected the gray sky and when the sun came out they turned crystal clear like ice water.
Out of all places it grew from a field of old volcanic ashes as if nature were trying to send us a message.
Maybe a gift.
In reconciliation of the peaceful offering from the other side, we joined hands and began to sing.
After over four hundred years of pain it was over and something or someone gave us a black rose that blossomed like dirty chains on a sycamore tree.
Amazed at the rare sight, black and white feathers started falling from the sky and we began to fly.
We were free to spread our wings, the chains on the sycamore tree were broken and we watched the black rose grow from the sky.
It was unbelievable…
It was beautiful…
It was a Black Rose.
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