A rose is just a bit of frozen sunlight
and a little carbon dioxide.
But, truly, I lie, for the rose is not a static thing,
not at all frozen, not at all solid.
See, rather, how the sunlight courses through its veins,
dancing and sparkling
not only upon the surface of the petal
but also down deep in the very core of the stem
thrilling the rose, sending shivers of delight up and down,
scattering like little children upon the steps of a great cathedral,
in every direction, all and at once,
now here, now there,
maintaining in this incessant flow the illusion
of something solid and sure —
but, I tell you ...
In every touch there is war.
And something more. And something more.