One night each year
she will appear
on the eve of Halloween;
but no one knows
whereof she goes,
for the long months in between.
Just one black rose
is all that grows
among the garden's many blooms;
now looks so grand
in her bony hand,
while roaming through the empty rooms.
Long flowing hair
and face so fair,
despair and sorrow in her eyes;
in black she's clad
her soul is sad -
the night sounds hide her lonely sighs.
Her feet are bare
she doesn't care,
for she no longer feels the pain;
she walks at night
dressed all in white,
in soft moonlight or sheeting rain.
She treads the shore
still searching for
the one who sailed so long ago;
the pain is strong
the time is long
and teardrops never cease to flow.
A legend tells
of tolling bells
that echoed over stormy seas;
lamenting songs
and pain so strong,
that brought her down upon her knees.
Her gentle heart
was torn apart,
gone was the love that she once knew;
all hope was killed
her blood was chilled,
by the gale force winds that blew.
A wandering soul
no longer whole,
she searched but could not find repose;
until the day
she slipped away
and in her hand was one black rose.
Now one black rose
like that she chose,
still grows upon that patch of green;
and she returns
as mem'ries burn,
when comes the eve of Halloween.
