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<blockquote data-quote="Quickstrings" data-source="post: 2562257">A young man approaches the tree, quietly singing a nonsense song to himself.&nbsp; He pauses, catching sight of the notes pinned to the tree and reads a few of them, a small smile playing on his lips.&nbsp; After a moment, he grins and rifles through a belt-pouch, pulling out a rumpled piece of parchment and a thin stick of charcoal.&nbsp; He pauses briefly, thinking, and begins to write.&nbsp; Once finished, he sticks the parchment on a thorn, and wanders away again, whistling lightly. A rose is a flower all covered in thornsWhose beauty is subtle and rare.My Rose is a flower as soft as the mornWho wears the moonlight as a jewel for her hair.Her footsteps are whispers of wind on the sea.She laughs like the summer, her song is the night.The light in her eyes is the hawk, soaring free.The arch of her neck is a poem in flight.The rose is a flower that fades in a day.Its beauty is golden, but brief.My Rose is the starlight that brightens my wayWhose arms are the death of my grief.I walk without waking, a cold, lonely road,A copperless player, whose feet ever roam.Though footsore and weary; light is my load.My Rose is the light of the fire in our home.My Rose, my dark flower, so gentle and fair,Pure as snow, soft as rain, sweet as wine;The rose is a flower I’ll weave in your hairAs I thank all the Saints that you’re mine…</blockquote>

[QUOTE="Quickstrings, post: 2562257"] [I]A young man approaches the tree, quietly singing a nonsense song to himself. He pauses, catching sight of the notes pinned to the tree and reads a few of them, a small smile playing on his lips. After a moment, he grins and rifles through a belt-pouch, pulling out a rumpled piece of parchment and a thin stick of charcoal. He pauses briefly, thinking, and begins to write. Once finished, he sticks the parchment on a thorn, and wanders away again, whistling lightly.[/I] A rose is a flower all covered in thorns Whose beauty is subtle and rare. My Rose is a flower as soft as the morn Who wears the moonlight as a jewel for her hair. Her footsteps are whispers of wind on the sea. She laughs like the summer, her song is the night. The light in her eyes is the hawk, soaring free. The arch of her neck is a poem in flight. The rose is a flower that fades in a day. Its beauty is golden, but brief. My Rose is the starlight that brightens my way Whose arms are the death of my grief. I walk without waking, a cold, lonely road, A copperless player, whose feet ever roam. Though footsore and weary; light is my load. My Rose is the light of the fire in our home. My Rose, my dark flower, so gentle and fair, Pure as snow, soft as rain, sweet as wine; The rose is a flower I’ll weave in your hair As I thank all the Saints that you’re mine… [/QUOTE]

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