A Copy of Late-Blooming Roses

The brush glides calmly across the page; pale crimson winds through a hundred turns, and the moon gently embraces it;

I rise and gaze down, seeing only mist at the window, veiling half the view, and can't help but feel melancholy;

The copy is easy to revise, but the scent of ink lingers, leaving a lingering aftertaste for us both;

The brush is poised, yet the scene is one of a kind, like countless deep waves along the shore, as the furrow between the brows relaxes.