In the garden of whispered fears, blooms a flower watered by tears,
A bud of beauty, pure and bright, nurtured by sorrow's quiet night.
Its petals, delicate as a sigh, beneath the somber, clouded sky.
Tears, shed in the cloak of night, lend their sadness, their weight, their might,
Each droplet, a story untold, a tale of emotions, uncontrolled.
In the silence, they fall and seep, into the earth, where secrets sleep.
The flower drinks the saline dew, under the sky's mourning hue,
Absorbing tales of loss and pain, in every drop of crying rain.
Its roots, in sorrow's soil sown, a testament to strength unknown.
In the soft glow of the moon's caress, the flower blooms in quiet duress,
Its blossoms, a spectacle to behold, painted in shades of crimson and gold.
A symbol of resilience, clear and loud, wearing its sorrow bold and proud.
Each petal, a monument to tears, to love lost and passing years,
Yet in its heart, a radiant bloom, defying the slow impending gloom.
A beacon of hope, a silent prayer, in the garden of despair.
A single flower, rare and true, watered by sadness, and morning dew,
Blooms in silence, in tears it basks, a beautiful tragedy in its tasks.
An ode to life's sweet irony, a captivating beauty born from melancholy.
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