In a field where red roses sway,
Stands a single white rose, proud and gay,
Amidst the crimson sea of bloom,
It radiates in gentle plume.
The red roses, bold and bright,
Dance with passion, day and night,
Yet in their midst, serene and still,
The white rose holds a quiet thrill.
Its petals pure, a soft contrast,
To the fiery hues that are amassed,
A symbol of peace, a beacon of grace,
In a world where fervor sets the pace.
Alone it stands, yet not forlorn,
For in its difference, it’s adorned,
A testament to the beauty found,
In being unique, yet still profound.
In a field of red, it finds its place,
Embracing its own gentle pace,
A single white rose, strong and free,
A reminder of what it means to be.