The rose is a blossom of affection. The world has acclaimed it for a considerable length of time. Pink roses are for affection cheerful and hopeful. White roses are for adoration dead or spurned, yet the red roses, ah the red roses are for affection triumphant.
A rose must stay with the sun and the rain or its dazzling guarantee won't work out.
The rose is a rose from the time it is a seed to the time it kicks the bucket. Inside it, constantly, it contains its entire potential. It is by all accounts always during the time spent change: Yet at each state, at every minute, it is consummately good as it may be.