White Rose

White Rose

Drip, drip, the blood does drip,
Step, step, till your toes dip,
Red, red, red as the lips,
Which dared to kiss the thorns’ tips.

Through narrow shafts,
Do moonbeams come,
Light up, make bright,
The white rose hung,
We gaze at him,
Moon in our sky,
As wounds drip red
Into our eyes.

The drips do thin,
No life in him,
Yet he shines, a crucified star,
We stand below
Our breaths do flow
And yet, corpses we are.