My grandpa liked the wormwood. In many respects, he was an exemplary noble knight of his epoch, and so is the wormwood, in a sense. Towering on harsh lands, where other plants hideously crouch close to the soil, it stands as a lighthouse of strength and honour. Even its Latin name,
Artemisia, as if speaks out the proud and sophisticated background. With a coat of argentine gray foliage, it manifests the colour of a true nobility. The cold glow of silver rises above the ephemeral kaleidoscope of the bloom. Silver, a vanguard of ancient and proud honour, not yet corrupted by the sins, blood, and temptation that the gold is a symbol of since the beginning of time. Gray and honest, bitter and sincere, the wormwood is untouched by the urge of bright tones and vulgarly sweet taste to lure pollinating insects. Sugar as a fuel of life, promotes the “love deal”, whereas the mutual profit supersedes the miracle of love feeling in the terms of importance. The bitterness it has, in fact, shows identity and soul compared to uniform mass of wannabe unique twins, that sweet flowers with appealing odour verily are. Only the wild breeze is allowed to arrange the progeny of a noble plant. Persisting through the winter cold the wormwood leads the charge into immortality, gazing into a corner of eternity, whereas others would prefer to primitively reproduce and die out, not being able to withstand the burden of resilience. However, that charge is not to be thought of as a vain attempt. Even dead, the hardened stalks retain the stand for quite a time, refusing to decay into the vile rot as lesser plants inevitably destined to. Thus the wormwood symbolises the transcendence of the idealistic nobility over the profane
existence and shows the example of how being a beacon of honour allows touch the infinity.
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Tags: public, philosophy, botany, honour, omsk
