The white rose garden stood untouched, reserved for hands so pure, so just. Only one could tend to it with care to breathe the fragrance, bright and rare. But through the gates of iron he crept, with ruthless hands, petals wept. He plucked, he crushed, he left them torn, once pristine, now bruised and forlorn. The white rose garden still stands alone no longer sacred, overgrown. Not for beauty, not for grace, but for the damage time cannot erase.