The Roses That Are Not Red and the Violets That Are Not Blue
There’s a garden somewhere, far from the reach of sunlit skies and moonlit nights, where roses are not red and violets refuse to be blue. It is a place untouched by the rules of color and reason, where nature blooms in rebellion — a quiet defiance against what the world expects them to be.
The roses, pale as winter’s breath, stand tall without the blush of crimson. They do not bleed passion or speak in the language of lovers. Instead, they hum softly in shades of ivory and ash, whispering truths that no heart dares to hold. Their petals are cold, but they do not wither. They endure, unswayed by the need to be beautiful.
The violets, dulled into shades of slate and tarnished silver, are no longer symbols of modesty or faithful love. They are stubborn things — worn but unbroken. They do not bloom to be admired. They bloom because they must, because existence itself is an act of quiet rebellion.
In this garden, beauty is not what it appears to be. It is not in the color, nor in the softness of the petals. It is in the will to grow, to stand, even when the world says they should not.
Perhaps we are all a little like those roses and violets — shaped by expectations we never asked for, painted in colors that are not our own. But somewhere within us, there’s a garden too — one where we bloom in the shades we were never meant to wear.
And maybe, just maybe, that is where the truest kind of beauty lives.
The Roses That Are Not Red And The Violets That Are Not Blue