From the thorns of a little blood rose
It's red petals smell sweet like wine
And the way the sacred flower shows
The thorns of the little blood rose.
From the ash of a fire burnt out
Rises a pheonix, still divine
Extinguished not, not one doubt,
The ash of a fire burnt out.
Against the sky and against the sea,
Against the thoughts of rested time
Love is pain through strength like tree,
Against the sky - against the sea.
Given, taken, still love's a sign,
A vigil (sharing what it knows),
From the thorns of a small blood rose,
It's red petals still sweet like wine.
By Nathan Downs