Ancestor of the apocalypse, the day history ended remains in my core.
Always beyond memory, I inhabit all that gloomy ceremony.
I was born in a sewer pit, without absorbing any of its filth.
I was burnt in a furnace; humans are the most hellish.
I rose from the rot as a rose, meant for a fellow traveller.
How pleasant it is for the one who dares to touch my buckler.
For those who fear my thorn, this is deliberate.
For those who do not fear it, this is a snare.
My view is my thorn, meant to sort and repel.
I frighten the unworthy, and I draw the fearless toward my spell.
This flower does not smell sweet; this flower does not look pleasant.
It is a rose beyond the bud, archiving its own ashes.
It is accustomed to harshness, never inviting anyone.
Its vision is grounded in sternness, never having been seduced before.
Its leaves are made for hardness, never blooming among the mediocre.
It stands upright without sunlight.
Ally of the night, it shines under the moonlight.
None have torn it from its ancient root; it is its own silent orator.
My mother is the rubble; the ruins are my womb.
The rose of the storm eradicates the daisy of the still.
My redness is the sunset; I sweep across the world in flames.
I drain the forest; my height reaches the height of the trees.
I grow toward the heavens and leave a desert behind me.
I was born from war, and now I declare it.
― Atrona Grizel