White rose

In a far land of love

Wind writes a prose, 

In a garden of devotion,

There's a white rose.

Who waits for little black butterfly,

From the dawn to dusk,

Nights are full of cries,

Fall is about to come, 

White rose had turned pale,

Soon there will be snow

And the winter's hail. 

Spring brings back the 

Butterfly to the place,

But that white rose

Now rests in solace.