*Rose from my Grandmother's gardenBismillah (In the name of God)
Curling over the sweet smell, I hurry to embrace the next nose. Many pass by but few really seek the beauty that has been given to me. Folding and molding petals of silkened pearl colored skin, my cheeks are sometimes blush red. I intensify naturally, but the new cloning sensation has stripped me of my scent. Longing for sunshine and rain, I have blossomed into a full mass of curls that are used to decorate and enhance boring scenery. Pressed, I become re-usable on tables to add sweet smells to an empty place. Snipped and cut, I can decorate a man or woman without losing my identity. Dried and hung for memories to linger, I can remind you of when you smiled or when you cried. Falling beautifully on fabric, I enhance the patterns that are cut to form and reproduced for an endless ream of fashion. Mesmorized by the variety of colors I create, from pearl white to cobalt blue, natural and unnatural, cherised and thrown away, adored and hated, sweet smelling and distinct, I carry the burden of flowers, and began the struggle for the spotlight. My tireless beauty becomes weak, as my head droops from dehydration or lack of light and care. The end is inevitable unless firmly planted in rich soil.
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