When did you last smell a rose? What did it smell like? Did it smell like a happy and honest yello one, like an aristocratic and highly emotional red one or was it more like the „can‘t decide whether it‘s still spring or already summer“ abricot one? Do you still remember? I tell you what: Roses are like sculptures to me, like a secret piece of art. Every morning, when I walk to the train station to get to work, I pass by all those beautiful roses which have been planted into Zurichs front gardens 60, 80 or even 100 years ago. These roses are independent from any changes, may it be the weather, the landlord, the economy or the dog on the third floor. They are reliable, every year, they open their beautiness without any concerns or regrets, they admit their weakness when the wind gets to strong or when the summer sun dissapears like during the past two weeks and - they‘re tolerant. Competition next door - not seen as such. Not too much attention - can cope with that. Roses -
Alle lieben Dich
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Alle lieben Dich
Geboren, nur um da zu sein
Bist Du für Dich, doch nicht allein
Du bist bei Dir, doch eingebettet
In was Dir fehlt und was Dich rettet...