Upon a deep blue rose, a scented song, so delicate of harmony and sweet; a melody, whose strains of love replete I mused upon. To whom could it belong? To claim such ballad ought have felt so wrong, but I could ne’er its memory delete; each note an echo in my own heart’s beat, alluring me to drift and sing along. Though how I wish I’d never found the rose whose music stirred a restlessness in me; where love once blossomed only sorrow grows from searching for a love that cannot be, and timelessly a tear-blue river flows through heartache’s vale to discontentment’s sea.