WINGS OF ROSES

By Vera Von Monika

The night opened slowly,
dressed in silver light and fading perfume,
while roses gathered at the edge of the wind
as though they had been waiting
for the sky to remember them.

Petals lifted one by one,
not falling,
ascending.

Crimson wings unfolding through the darkness,
soft as velvet,
dangerous as desire,
beautiful enough to silence the stars.

And in that suspended hour,
the world became weightless.

Music drifted through the air
like crystal dissolving into water,
each note touching the skin gently
before disappearing somewhere beyond reach.

Nothing felt mortal then.

Not the moonlight trembling across your face.
Not the delicate violence of longing.
Not the roses opening wider
as if love itself had entered the garden.

There are feelings
too vast to remain inside the body.

They become colour.
They become melody.
They become wings.

Perhaps that is why the roses rose upward,
their petals scattering into the heavens
like fragments of an unfinished dream,
carried higher and higher
through midnight blue silence.

No sorrow lived there.
Only intensity.
Only beauty too radiant
to remain on the ground.

And beneath that endless sky,
with the fragrance of roses surrounding everything,
even time seemed to stop breathing.

As though the universe itself
had paused
just to watch something beautiful
learn how to fly.

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