¨What´s in a name¨, you say,
Mr Shakespeare;
¨That which we call a rose.
By any other name would smell as sweet.”
You say?
Were you really that naïve?
Or did the roses of your time
not mind being called
Lilies or dandelions?
Were they okay to bask
in the reflected grace of the lilies?
Or adjust to the humble beginnings
of the dandelions?
Perhaps they understood
their qualities would not change
with just a change of name.
That their name was but extrinsic –
and not a passport to opulence…
or a ticket into oblivion.
Not a right,
nor a cross to be carried.
Nurtured by the soil;
dancing in the breeze;
drenched in the rain
that belong to none.
And were willing to rise above
the differences of genus and species,
the color of their petals,
and the earth on which they grew.
What´s in a name you ask? Again?
Ego…Psyche…Inadequecies, perchance?