Before winter,

the rosebush

had learned

to bloom

without asking.

Then,

someone mistook

beauty

for something

they could own.

After that,

every petal

began to fall,

the way things do

once spoken

in violence.

No one heard

the first tear.

The thorns

did.

That is why

they began

growing inward.

The rosebush

had spent

so many winters

rooted

in the same earth,

that even its thorns

had forgotten

how to wound.

Only the wind

still knew

the way.

Then,

one drop.

Dark.

So slowly,

even the dust

left it alone.

Then,

another.

The earth

looked away.

Nothing else.

No one passed.

No one asked.

No one knew

that beneath

a crust

of forgotten roots,

something

remembered
a heartbeat

still waiting

after all those years.

·

Winter

did

what winter

always does.

Strip.

Silence.

Wait.

The wind

carried off

leaves

that were never

its own.

Frost

claimed

the branches.

And the rosebush,

from a distance,

still looked

like a tree

that had forgotten

its own name.

Until that dawn.

Morning

had not yet

arrived.

Only silence.

And one bud,

so small

the light

leaned closer

to believe it.

Then another.

Then another.

·

When

the first petal

opened,

red

returned.

The wind

moved on.

The insects

arrived

before the people.

The birds,
What No One Saw

Before winter,

the rosebush
had learned
to bloom
without asking.

Then,

someone mistook

beauty

for something
they could own.

After that,

every petal
began to fall,

the way things do
once spoken
in violence.

No one heard

the first tear.

The thorns did.

That is why
they began
growing inward.

The rosebush
had spent
so many winters

rooted
in the same earth,

that even its thorns
had forgotten how to wound.

Only the wind
still knew
the way.

Then,

one drop.

Dark.

So slowly,

even the dust
left it alone.

Then,

another.

The earth
looked away.

Nothing else.

No one passed.

No one asked.

No one knew

that beneath
a crust
of forgotten roots,

something
remembered
a heartbeat

still waiting
after all those years.

Winter
did
what winter
always does.

Strip.

Silence.

Wait.

The wind
carried off
leaves
that were never
its own.

Frost
claimed
the branches.

And the rosebush,

from a distance,

still looked
like a tree
that had forgotten
its own name.

Until that dawn.

Morning
had not yet
arrived.

Only silence.

And one bud,

so small
the light
leaned closer
to believe it.

Then another.

Then another.

When
the first petal
opened,

red
returned.

The wind
moved on.

The insects
arrived
before the people.

The birds,
before
the insects.

Morning,
before
them all.

Much later,

someone said,

"Look...

It's blooming again."

No one answered.

Because no one
had seen
the only thing
that mattered.

Those two drops
the earth
still kept,

never saying
whose
they were.

From then on,

the rosebush
flowered
again.

The earth
never gave back
those two drops.

And the rosebush
never again
asked
the wound
to bloom.

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