In the ditches by the rivers are the roses of the streams,
where the mountain brings the water brightly glowing as it gleans,
when the farmers make their oceans sowing fabric from a seed,
and the growing hedgerow roses as the borders soon to breathe.
As the clues do soon unravel so do vaults of spring beget,
sweetly bright inviting blossoms for the sorceress of death,
when the living are unknowing in the afterlife are blind,
there are wicked petals fading into rose hips on the vine.
Many worlds of verdant wisdom in the madness do demand,
like the coming of the winter while the roots spread thru the sand,
for her learning of the balance as a wound to tend in haste,
shall the vying of the living come from hence anon erased.
Many warriors in their glory as the rose hips in a swell,
try to take the judgement from her but her petals never fell,
center autumn when the worlds of life and death are at their most,
does the icy kingdom haunt her with the roses of the ghost.
In the time of violent harvest where the dead are in her wake,
should the red and ripe beyond the vine are hers behest to take,
if the heaven isn't snowing shall the leaves stay on the trees,
for the harvester of sorrow comes unknowing like the breeze.