In a world of broken shackles, a withered rose stands,

Its petals wilted, its colors fading in desolate lands.

A metaphor for a soul oppressed, its sunset unseen,

Struggling for sunbeam, in a city so mean.

Like a stream damned, its water forcefully contained,

The current of symphonies and blueprints restrained.

A metaphor for a book denied it rightful road,

Yearning for balance, seeking a stronger force.                                                    

But even at night, a flicker of hope remains,

A beacon of an oak tree, where strength sustains.

For the flower may wither, but its roots run deep,

A testament to the human warrior, refusing to sleep.