White roses.

They were not trees I planted, but Roses standing white, that lit up the garden there, beneath the moon
at night
A single rose in his honour, each leaf and thorn the same
Pretty as he was in darkness,
under the nights bright
flame
I picked but one in his memory, and placed it on the shadowed grave
And as I spoke with spirits joined, wept tears  before his name
The night It played with tragic hearts
Each star above did shine
And as I breathed
I longed to touch, the heart that once was mine.