An "Angel's" View

His role

You forgot.

Your white, pristine petals are my proof, though - you can't see that. Your dulled or lost thorns are my evidence, but - you forgot they existed.

I remember. Like stone I endured; that flaming field of soaking red.

I was afraid, terrified, of being caught in the cursed breeze that drifted your sharpened thorns into the dormant petals of another.

You were not white then, you were crimson.

My silent voice had cried out: No! Stop!

You couldn't hear me. I rushed to shield all from the violent winds, to save the seeds of their future, the gale so suddenly sought to sweep away.

I failed.

The winds stopped anyway. The air was heavy and thick, but still.

I saw you. Alone. Red roses, trampled, torn, discarded - were piled up by your stem. Your seeds were still miraculously protected, and day by day you started to open your petals, you began to bloom.

A gust blew. You were lost to me. Red petals flew before once more the wind died. I knew there was more to come.

I sat back, finally accepting my role here. The winds came time and time again. Your brothers and sisters fought. I observed.

Finally, the storm ceased. A handful of roses remained, beaten and battered, their thorns dulled or lost, but it was over.

You grew back, in the form of another. Your petals had become white, and you had grown without any thorns - but I knew it was you.

And you forgot. I can tell by the way you sway. You have been changed, and you don't even know how nor why.

You forgot.

I wish I could forget too.