Ink-Stained Affection

Crimson Rose

Rose! The Crimson Rose!
Oh, how relentlessly red, the rose!
As the day sinks into the west, the rose fades with it.
The sorrowful hue of a bride's crimson alta—this is the rose.
The innocent smile of a startled infant—this is the rose.
The shy glance of a restless cloud-maiden—this is the rose.
In the oven's warmth, the intricate nakshi pitha emerges—this is the rose.
The captivating weave of a master's loom—this is the rose.
Within the folds of a beloved's cherished letter, lies a rose.
The fragrant corner of a mother's sari cradles the rose.
Tucked into the hair of a dark-tressed young maiden—this is the rose.
A sculptor's masterpiece, a fragment of a crimson rose.
Stitched by needles onto cotton fabric, painted into life—this is the rose.
Etched onto the jingling anklets and bracelets of a dancer—this is the rose.
The wound of a fearless freedom fighter—this is the rose.
In the heart of the resistance, blooming as defiance—this is the rose.
In the grieving heart, burning endlessly—this is the rose.
In countless untold stories, longing is carried by the rose.
Adorning the braided hair of fair maiden—this is the rose.
Fastened into the ribbon of a little girl's ponytail—this is the rose.
A family of puppets in a bioscope reel—this is the rose.
The spinning Ferris wheel at a village fair—this is the rose.
Buzzing with the fragrance of twilight—this is the rose.
In a cage of thorns, it blossoms anew—this is the rose.

Oh, the crimson rose!
How deeply red, the rose!
How relentlessly red, the rose!