Sometimes cold azurite turns into a rose,
Just by itself it blooms, a whim that nature shows.
As if it once was alive, recalling days of yore,
A stone rose: no silken softness, no scent anymore.
No yearning for sunlight, no tremor at a breeze’s breath,
No blooming overnight and no sudden fall to death.
You cannot look away — but hard, and sharp, and stone,
The deep-sea blue of an ocean where a lost island stands alone.

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Thanks to Leah Borovoi for improving the text.