Tonight, beneath the pale silver glow of the moon, my heart trembles with both sorrow and purpose. From my perch upon the oak tree, I listened to the young Student weeping bitterly. He spoke of love, of a red rose he did not possess, and of the Professor’s daughter who would not dance with him without it. His tears fell like rain upon the grass, and though others called his grief foolish, I felt the truth of his love singing in my own br3@st. All night I searched the garden for a red rose. The white rose-tree could not help me; nor could the yellow. At last, the red rose-tree spoke — it could give me a crimson bloom, but only at a terrible cost. I must press my heart against a thorn and sing through the night, giving my lifeblood to create the rose. For a moment, fear fluttered within me. Life is sweet. The scent of blossoms, the whisper of the wind, the golden warmth of the sun — all these are dear to me. Yet what is my life compared to true love? Love is greater than life, and my song has always been in praise of it. So tonight, I shall give myself to the thorn. As the moon climbs higher, I will sing of love born in young hearts, of passion that glows like fire, of devotion that outlives death. My blood shall stain the rose deeper and deeper red until it mirrors the beating of my heart. If my sacrifice can bring joy to the Student, then my song shall not have been in vain. The dawn may find me silent — but love will bloom where I once sang.
