Rose.

It was the height of Winter.
The cold soared and the wind whistled
as a dense darkness descended onto the city.
What little light the street lamps could afford
was spent upon the city square;
for a crowd of murmuring passers-by
had ceased to pass and gathered there.
The clouds too, seemed to slow -
as if the Heavens themselves should care.
A few now sat upon the snow,
but all stayed fixed as if by snare.
For stood where nothing ever grows -
a solitary Moscow rose.