Between the white rosebud and the nightingale.
A star-crossed story, true love unamended.
A typical romance, sort of fairytale.
In the barren valley of wind, thorns and twine,
Lived a white rosebud, with petals of silk.
On the top of a mountain, perched on a vine.
Stood a bird, who sang finer than all his ilk.
When the nightingale sang, the winter would thaw,
In the lonely valley where the wild wind blows.
One night, he was flying, he looked down and saw,
The most divine flower, the rarest white rose.
He flew down to sing to the delicate sight.
He could never forget the rosebud's perfume.
The rose thought, this kind of love couldn't be right.
She yearned for the night song, still wouldn't bloom.
She didn't yet know how to let this love in.
To bloom for the night, to bloom under moonlight.
The nightingale bravery flew into the wind.
The windy always prevails when faced with the night.
He gave her his song, unafraid of goodbye.
Beyond dulcet echoes, their folkfare lay dead.
She longs for his song, she's growing towards the sky.
Against the harsh sunset, her petals look red.
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