When roses bloom, a rose is a rose; it always was and always will be; although now, because the «woke» dictates it, the carnation could be a rose, the mock orange will be; and the poppy, behind it all… What difference does it make, one or the other?
The love of my life has arrived; she will always be unique and shows me, with pleasure, the hue of a corolla. What color would you like, so that you may kiss my rose?
Long ago; even now, I have always wanted red roses. Give me, then, the red rose, which you have cut from your rosebush, and it will adorn my soul!
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