The Rose Garden

The Rose Garden

High in the mountains safe from harm there lies a path that branches along a forgotten arm. It leads to a garden shrouded in mist. Hidden and quiet; truly a place god had kissed.

Once you have walked down the path you arrive at a stone arch that carved vines creep all over. Stepping through the portal a cobbled path winds through a wild tangle of roses. Most stand at deaths door; their brittle skeletons frosted by the cold wind that wound its way along the high path. Snap frozen in permanent slumber the roses have become delicate ice statues. As the cobbled path leads deeper into the shadow of the mountain the air warms and the garden bursts to life.

Perfect emerald stems rise from black earthen beds to rise into the sky. Along each stem razor sharp amber thorn protrude to protect the beauty of the blood red blossoms that burst to life whenever someone draws near. When the garden is empty it hibernates and the roses close into their buds. Only to be wakened when those who find their way enter the gate.

Roses in bloom cast a heady fragrance that hangs in the air. The order that was lacking at the entrance dissolves into carefully tended beds. The cobbled path eventually finds its way to a fountain. A statue sits gracefully in the basin water cascading down it back into the pool. The statue is that of a women standing proudly and defiantly hands by her side facing the entrance. She is beautiful and terrible to behold an avatar in a flowing stone robe. A garland of roses on her head. From the pool a rose vine grows twisting around her legs giant thorns sticking into the stone. It winds its way up to the waist and wraps around it clinched like a belt. On the vine grows a single black rose - perfect and pristine.

Behind the statue the path splits and winds off in separate directions. It meanders through the endless garden of roses. Warm and safe the garden comforts and protects an entity on its own.

Carved into the mountain at the back of the garden there is a winding stair. Its ascends to a small shrine where hewn into the rock there is a door. It is said that if the proper offering is left or in the presence of grace the door will open. It has remained shut for over a millenia. Just a carving and nothing more of a cellar door with a rose handle and thorny nails...

Whom so ever tends this garden does so with loving grace... Perhaps to save their fallen face...

A donum de ego tuut... Amore...