Rose of Menses

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A rose blooms in crimson silence,

its petals wet with the tide of time.

Every drop a story unspoken,

a pulse, a memory, a rhythm divine.

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From roots of shadow, it rises,

defiant, tender, and raw.

The world recoils, yet cannot deny

its stubborn, sacred law.

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Thorns that taste of iron and fire,

petals soft as whispered prayer.

In its blood, the stars remember

what it is to live, to dare.

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Touch it gently, yet fear not its power;

for even in its bleeding bloom,

there lies a quiet revolution 

a cosmos spun from moonlit womb.