The Reply

Yesteryears, they burn, a fire-
your mind turns to fear,
you ask:
Will you raise our tomorrows
in the ashes of past,
the blackness of love?

And my reply
is the black rose,
that will never be found:

Tomorrows
born of the past
will be the thorns that I will keep-
thorns guarding
the blackness of our love.