The rose lies demurely, cast in the soft shadows of afternoon. It does not move in the traditional way, preferring to glide from one direction to the next with each gentle breeze, but that does not diminish or draw attention away from the soft petals that rest so comfortably on their mother bud. Pert, soft, voluptuous, they are proud daughters, sleek with the approaching evenings dew. Through their pride, they have bitten through the gentle flesh of lovers and neigh sayers alike, but as one, they turn when she approaches; their sister siblings will not pierce her skin. The petals say to their mother, But we do not wish her harm, and she complies, bending to the wind so that her youngest children, her fickle thorns, do not draw blood from the one that has so enchanted the roses. She says to her sisters, who do not move in the traditional way, to heed their daughters, and the aunts, and grandmothers, and nieces and coy sisters move away. In a bush filled with proud petals and thorns, she may rest comfortably, safe in their embrace. A cradle of roses marks her skin, casting delicate rouge upon her features---the roses tremble to be a part of her. When she departs, as one, the roses move in a traditional way. Towards the sun, where she belongs. |

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