“The Rose by any other name would smell as sweet!” Hybrid, mutated, regardless of colour, size, the soil or climate it blossoms in, a rose essentially remains a rose. A thing of beauty and joy for ever. Yet. Arguments arise, and, competitions are held to decide which, and whose rose is better. Is it possible to compare what is beauty itself? Is it true that beauty is in the eye of the beholder? Yet quarrels have arisen, as is the case of The War of the Roses.
Yet, even now wars are being waged with the same intensity and bloodlust as they were in the middle ages. Who is the custodian of truth, the source of all beauty? People, wealth and resources are drained out to prove what? In a hundred years it will be no more than vanity, vanity. So much bloodshed and agony could be avoided if someone like Lawrence of Arabia could reemerge to capture the combatants’ respect and confidence to bring their hearts and minds to work for peace. The West is blessed with a new Francis who could go bare-footed to the tent of the Caliph to plead, pray are parley for peace. Peace is not beyond those that pray.