Song of Silent Melpomene

I look into the mirror and see the reflection of the rose vine.
Each tendril of the plant penetrates and hugs the stationed stalks of the window trellis.
Wind whispers through the gaps of oak diamonds and quivering leaves.
As the sun sets, the lights richly dim, throwing ghosts of rays on the walls.
Evening passed and morning came.
I stand silent.

I look into the mirror and see the reflection of the rose vine.
Gentle frost melts from the blossoms, leaving behind liquid rainbows of light.
Fragrance distils from the matured core, blessing the air with a bittersweet aroma.
‘Tis both elegant as the natural rain and intoxicating as sacred incense.
Evening passed and morning came.
I stand silent.

I look into the mirror and see the reflection of the rose vine.
Disturbed petals fall to the white sill, like drops of blood onto wedding lace.
As each red satin fragment touches the ledge, I can almost hear a Lydian mode.
I stand the marble figure of Melpomene, a transfixed muse.
Evening passed and morning came.

I stand silent.