Disclaimer: all the pictures except the last one have been taken and edited by me. Please do not repost without asking for permission first.
Arboretum in Tampere is a really beautiful place, a big park with a lake, lots of trees and in this time of the year hundreds of roses in full bloom. Walking among the roses buzzing with bees filled me with wonder. Is this really Finland? I almost cannot believe it. It also triggered other thoughts. Isn’t the life of a rose strange? Asleep, pratically dead, in winter, able to live only for a very short time, like other alive things in this cold land, like people. But when it is blooming it fills the world with such beauty, made even more precious by how shortly is gonna last.
The little prince went away, to look again at the roses.
“You are not at all like my rose,” he said. “As yet you are nothing. No one has tamed you, and you have tamed no one. You are like my fox when I first knew him. He was only a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But I have made him my friend, and now he is unique in all the world.”
And the roses were very much embarassed.
“You are beautiful, but you are empty,” he went on. “One could not die for you. To be sure, an ordinary passerby would think that my rose looked just like you–the rose that belongs to me. But in herself alone she is more important than all the hundreds of you other roses: because it is she that I have watered; because it is she that I have put under the glass globe; because it is she that I have sheltered behind the screen; because it is for her that I have killed the caterpillars (except the two or three that we saved to become butterflies); because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled, or boasted, or ever sometimes when she said nothing. Because she is my rose.
I wouldn’t die for these roses, as beautiful as they are. My rose is white, wild, smells like heaven and has a lot of thorns. In many places it is considered a pest, and it is definitely not suitable for wedding bouquets. But I love her dearly.
This is my rose, what is yours?