In eldritch night where spells conspire,
A sorcerer forged a flower of fire.
Crystal petals, wreathed in flame,
Unleashed a force none dared reclaim.

The rose bewitched the wide expanse,
Its colors spun a spectral dance.
The people came with hearts undone,
Drawn to the glow—the captive sun.

Its magic mended shattered lands,
A marvel wrought by gifted hands.
Yet far below, a darkness stirred,
Murmured truths no ear had heard.

Within the light, the darkness grew,
A silent seed the Fates once knew.
Its cryptic roots crept slow, unseen,
Beneath the bloom, a threat serene.

The skies turned cold; the waters stalled,
The earth below by death was called.
What once had shone, a beacon bright,
Became a thorn’s unyielding blight.

Despair drowned the sorcerer’s gaze,
As the realm stood silent, enthralled by blaze.
His dream—a marvel fierce and bright—
Had swallowed all the waning light.

No spell could quell the creeping gloom,
No force could halt the crystal’s doom.
Creation’s gift, a double-edged art,
That tore the world and broke his heart.

So stands the tale from ages past,
Of beauty made too bright to last.
A whisper woven in dark prose—
Beware the rose whose shadow grows.