You have been pushing, pushing
Pushing me
Until I am forced to open.

Grow, plant, grow.
Dig, roots, dig.

It started in May,
But I was still a bud
Until November.

Bloom, flower, bloom.
Drink, tendril, drink.

Now I’m shivering,
Too young to have petals
But not emerald alone.
It is now winter,
And I am going to die.
Thank you???

Live, rose, live.

You promised me
Not dead oaths, but
Flourishing, colorful covenants.

Chapter the Seventh

Chapter the Third

Let me now paint for you a picture of the king and queen, as they appear before us now.