In times of the age, a man seeks the bloom,
A flower, elusive, in the heart's pure room.
Under the moon's silver, its petals confide,
A nocturnal demise, in daylight, revived.

With whispers of roses, the garden's hush,
Echoes of footsteps, a clandestine crush.
Crickets compose a serenade so sweet,
Amidst shadows dancing to a clandestine beat.

A symphony of nightingales, their melodic grace,
As the flower awakens, a delicate embrace....