Always, it's the silent one.

No place and no time can one pose, to match the beauty of a white white rose. It does not seek to be beautiful, but to make others beautiful by making defects in itself, and in doing so, shows its quality, the very highest. A torn petal, or a thorn too sharp, a bud that doesn't bloom. The red rose is much more favoured, it's almost always perfect and so, more popular. Oh, open your eyes to reality, won't you? The perfect is selfish, and the defected is pure. It's so much more than pure, it's selfless. There's a puddle of black ink dirtying the floor. The white rose on the plant above falls down onto the puddle. Slowly, it seeps up the ink, till there's nothing left, but a black rose, now being trodden on by people who admire the pretty mosaic.