This rose plant stood in a rather unkempt corner of the garden. He was a strong plant, who gave flowers every season, beautiful and fragrant, red red roses.. The other rose plants envied him, his strength, his beauty and the fabulous roses that he produced. Yet, he was the unhappiest plant in the whole garden, for none came to pick his beautiful roses. The flowers bloomed, spread the sweet fragrance throughout the garden, invited the neighbors' envy, waited and wondered, why none came near, and withered away into the earth. The mighty rose plant never understood why, the priest who stopped by the garden religiously every morning, never dared touch him; the starry-eyed lover who looked admiringly at his roses, never came an inch closer; the little girl who wanted a rose to match her dress, wouldn't lay a finger. Why, even the gardener watered him from a distance!
Years passed. Autumn came. It came every year, but this time it was different. Gusts of wind came with mighty force, rattled the earth and shook the roots of the plant. The mighty rose plant, who broke not a branch all these years, fought a battle much fiercer. The wind rushed through his leaves, bringing them all down in a sweep. The rose plant swayed from side to side, struggling to hold on to his roots. Sometimes the wind twisted his branches. The rose plant kept fighting, but his branches started to break. He heard a crack and he heard it fall. His own branches fell on him. And then he knew, and then he understood, everything. His roses were beautiful indeed, but that came with a costly price. His thorns were longer, stronger and sharper than any he had ever seen, than any he had ever felt. He felt his own thorns pierce his vein, causing him unbearable pain. One by one, the branches fell on him, the plant screamed in agony. The wind wreaked havoc on the garden and finally bid goodbye. The rose plant looked at himself, at the fresh wounds caused by the thorns, his very own. So proud had he been, about his glamorous roses, that he had failed to see his thorns. Overcome with shame, overcome with grief, the rose plant endured the winter in silence.
Months passed. Spring came. It came every year, but this time it was different. The sparrows chirped a little too merrily, and the apple shoots peeked a little too early. The garden was gay, bright and cheerful. But something was amiss in a rather unkempt corner of the garden. There stood a rose plant who had given flowers every season, beautiful and fragrant, red red roses. But all that was left of him was a dried trunk, with a few dead branches. The concerned gardener came close, a little closer than he had ever been. He pulled the broken branches apart to reveal the body of the plant, with veins running dry and scars running deep. He watered it anyway, with a little more care. Alas, for it wasn't just the veins that the thorns had pricked. The rose plant never bloomed again, but sank into the earth to join his untouched flowers, beautiful and fragrant, red red roses.
