The sun has moved in; it becomes stronger and stronger by the day.The garden shakes its head, eyes half-opened, pulling the cover of soft grass up to its chin and shields itself from sunlight that already rises above the treetops. In every corner of the garden, leaves shine in buoyant green. Little flowers shoot up everywhere. Birds flock, twitting back and forth about a special guest, a red rose. And another one. One by one, red roses arrive like intruders to the garden’s peaceful green innocence. The garden reluctantly opens its eyes and mumbles: "Oh, rose is a rose is a rose. What can I do with you? Are you the flower of the sun? Or beauty that lasts? Or love that stays? You rise up from the ground, head up as if you are the queen of the garden. Do I have to embrace you? No, no, I don't want to choose. I'd better admire the beauty from far.” The garden resists, but the sun and red roses slowly heat up every layer of soil until the garden brightens in vibrant haziness. Then, a rainbow of multi-color roses blow an air of magic and sprinkle nonstop twinkling lights throughout the garden. The gentle garden is soaked up in sunlight and sparkling flower petals with promises of love and hope.
The irresistible extravagancy of a rose is luring yet aching, a temptation that scares people away. In splendid beauty hides thorny wickedness. A rose is a bold reminder of something that aches, something that lives. The flower resembles what has passed but never completely gone away. A rose blooms for a short fraction of time, but the thorns stay forever. The word rose says it all. Originating with a roaring, tongue-twisting "r", the deep locomotive-like sound eventually lands on an open field of "o" just as a long breath is pushed out from the belly bottom, like a sigh of regret from someone who has given up on memories that are drifting away and gradually fading beyond reach. The sadness of a short-lived passion rests in tiny petals of provocative red, a kind of deadly attractiveness that carries with it painful darkness, a discomfort of being in mourning and celebration at the same time.
A rose is a challenger, even to the toughest things on earth: the coldness and heartlessness that reside in stone and time. Time and stone belong to each other, both rigid and rough. Time doesn't have a heart; it moves on apathetically. Time doesn't speak and never grieves. Stone belongs to the world of hollow souls, habitants of the unknown. Layers of soil throughout thousands of years have covered organism that was once alive. Stones in silence of time distill pain into the most rigid form of existence. Stone suffers alone in its own echo, speaks, breathes, cries to itself in vast eerie valleys of prayers and it travels in the sand of wishes. Stone in the deepest level of self-discovery is searching for a companion that finds consolations in stone. For a day or two in the year, the other dark side of glorious sunlight has broken all barriers to become a rose, to exist in a magic dream of being the flower of love.
A rose growing on the verge of a stone cliff is an echo of grief lasting thousands of years, an eternity during which stone has prayed for a chance to feel the tremor of love. The unbearable heat of summer brings rose on the heel of stone, casting pure dew on stone’s shoulder and few but intense drops of happiness. A rose covers hollow space and aching void that stone can never fill itself. A slender rose in blend with the lonely chunkiness of endurance makes a crisp contrast of life's short beauty and centuries’ long forbearance. Stone is in the end granted the loveliest representation of sweetness and stone can hardly explain how such a poetic fairy-tale could possibly happen to its life of total clumsiness. Rose petals fall down to warm earth, returning to the magic black where it comes from and let it be forgotten in the shadow of darkness. Sacrifice of a rose proves that nothing but a rose can survive and “beautify” cruelty of stone.
A rose must experience everything that comes its way and holds tight to the meaning of love. A rose arrives in the garden when a wish for eternal love somewhere on the surface of the earth has come true. The flower of love melts stone, challenges time, and replenishes black earth. In full rosy bloom, life in the gardensprouts, expands and urges stone and time to give space; flowers beg time to slow down. Bees and butterflies cling to the every second of time’s creation. The legend of a rose lives on as it has always been for centuries when we continue to find answer to the most fundamental question: “Why do roses have thorn?” A rose blooms, waving in the wind with a dance of love that permanently lives in the heart of each and every one of us.