Белая роза в чёрном стекле

In a black glass sits a white rose,

Color of blood, like wine that flows.

A contrast so stark, a sight to see,

A symbol of beauty, of mystery.

 

From the depths of darkness, it emerges,

This fragile flower, like a moonbeam surges.

Its petals hold secrets, stories untold,

In its fragrant essence, mysteries enfold.

 

The white rose blooms amidst the night,

A tiny star shining, pure and bright.

Its thorny stem protects its grace,

A delicate paradox in this darkest space.

 

The black glass awakens, a magical spell,

As the rose dances, like a melody to tell.

A symphony of contrasts, in harmony it sings,

A reminder of how opposites can bring.

 

The color of blood, as red as wine,

Captured in the crystal, a moment frozen in time.

A symbol of passion, of love's intense flame,

A symbol of courage, in the face of pain.

 

In a black glass sits a white rose,

Color of blood, like wine that flows.

This enigmatic flower, forever will reside,

A testament to beauty, in darkness it thrives.