There is a place where no one goes.
Why they don’t, no one knows.
Maybe it’s the little girl singing back there,
Or perhaps it’s the church bells ringing for Morning Prayer.
There grow flowers of Pink and Red and Purple hue,
The little boy saying, hand held out, “these’re for you”.
There is no reason that they are there,
The shy gold-eyed boy or the girl with black-curled hair.

In this place that no one goes,
There grows a single red-petaled rose.
It has been some time now, you know,
So flower boys and singing girls grow.
This rose is replanted every year,
Why? Because it is apparently held dear.

The boy is a Ratte and the girl a Grave,
These the names their families gave.
Yet none so dire, for this is the place,
The one where no one goes,
For the reason that no one knows.
This is the place where the flowers grow,
With the red-petaled rose that has been there for some time now, you know.

Here is the haven of the shy gold-eyed boy Patrick,
And the Garden of the black-curled hair girl Aedan.