The Black Rose and the Red Raven

A young maid with an innocent stare

Runs about her garden, here and there.

She sings and she plays completely unaware

Of the Black Rose and the Red Raven

 

Many milk-white doves sing in her garden

While fair lilies hang here and there.

She collects them for her fair hair, yet to hearken

The Black Rose and the Red Raven.

 

The raven crows loud and long,

Stifling the dove’s pure notes here and there.

Never did the fair maid hear a song

Like that of the Black Rose and the Red Raven.

 

The maid walks toward the raven and his caws

Ignoring the doves and lilies here and there.

She walks on her fair feet, as soft as cat paws,

To the Black Rose and the Red Raven.

 

The rose was the color of darkest darkness,

And reflected bits of color here and there.

All amazed and mesmerized the maid was

By the Black Rose and the Red Raven.

 

The doves did try to lure her back to the pale orchard,

Making melodies and fluttering about here and there.

But the maid was lost and could only move forward

Toward the Black Rose and the Red Raven.

 

The maid moved to pluck the black rose,

Hypnotized by the oily colors moving here and there.

Sweet as French perfume and softer than Swiss snows

Was the Black Rose and the Red Raven.

 

She grasped the rose from its humble bush,

Unaware of the envenomed thorns here and there.

So fragile was her life, that it only needed a gentle push

From the Black Rose and the Red Raven.

 

So it is that our fair maiden dies.

Not near the doves and the lilies here and there,

But with crows in her ears and darkness in her eyes,

Killed by the Black Rose and the Red Raven.

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