In the garden where the silent sleepers lie,
A rose of molten silver softly gleams,
Its petals catch the last breath of the sky
As afternoon sinks slow in golden dreams. Beyond the weathered wall, the old church stands,
Its windows painted with a dying fire—
Crimson and sapphire spill across the lands,
A fleeting hymn of light that will expire. Fog drifts like incense through the leaning stones,
It curls around the crosses, soft and slow,
And wraps the sleeping world in muffled tones,
Where even sorrow learns to softly glow. Here beauty lingers, neither quite alive
Nor wholly lost to shadow’s quiet claim;
The silver bloom alone dares to survive,
And holds the sunlight like a sacred flame. Though dusk descends and gloom begins to creep,
Its radiance defies the coming night—
A fragile crown upon the garden deep,
Where death itself is touched by gentle light. Then winter comes, unhurried and serene,
To lay its silent mantle over all:
Frost weaves a lattice, delicate and clean,
Across the rose and every ancient wall. Snow falls in whispers, soft as forgotten prayers,
It crowns the silver petals, veils the stone;
Ice glimmers on the stained glass, cold and fair,
And turns the garden to a world of bone. Yet even under frost’s unyielding art,
The rose endures—a spark beneath the snow—
A quiet promise locked in winter’s heart:
That beauty sleeps, but never lets go.
