Every rose has it's thorns, but not her

What is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen? A flower, white and pure, in a field of debris. The lily maiden, a lotus in the troubled oceans, sprouting and unfolding, emerging amidst glass and iron, not in combat with the world, but in affection of its lone friend. The mild radiance of the lady does not cut through the oppressive grey, but rather quietly calls out, brushing against the coldness softly, a star glimmering in the blackened night— pure, composed, soft shimmers of light, a flickering candle flame— weak, fickle, yet present. Do you hear it? Do you feel its warmth against your skin? Do you wish to hold it? Run your hands through its hair? Keep it close to your heart? This tender thing, a pretty feeling, a sleepy lullaby, soothing troubled corpses, comforting the broken porcelain. And as it worships them, unwavering embrace, kind and selfless, it too fades— the petals fall away. They must. But it’s no less pleasing to see— pieces of snow, pearls on the sand, cotton eyes unblemished. The cascade, one after another in the fall, joining the rest, hand in hand, ready once more for birth and unbirth, spit out of mother’s mouth, then returned to the womb; so it goes. Yet, it does not weep, it does not protest, it does not mourn— small smiles and laughter, understanding, sympathetic to death’s cold touch, pleasantries with the ferryman, taking its murderer into it’s home, a table with it’s family, which is everyone, lays itself before them, an offering, a lamb of self-sacrifice, not in obligation, but because it simply can, and it is the best thing it can imagine— that which makes it happiest is already here. It is satisfied, it does not anger, does not regret, grudgeless and unstubborn. Without resentment, it nuzzles the hand that chokes it, knowing the pain of taking, that harm is done most to the self, kisses the knife that cuts it, cold unfeeling instrument, for it needs nothing in return. Wars, disease, hunger, it has seen it all before, how ugly and flawed you are. It has seen it all, but it does not judge, does not scrutinize; rather, it sees it all, and says, “This, this is good. I like it.” Do you love it? This small flower? Do you cherish it? This small piece of good? What is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen? What is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?