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Two roses grew side by side on a trellis outside the manor of a rich man. Both knew that their fate was to be picked, for such is the fate of flowers.
One rose bloomed fiercely, saving nothing for its thorns. It bloomed magnificently.
The other rose sought survival. It diverted all its energy to creating giant points along its stem. It had little left over for blooming. It resisted the unfurling. Its petals were small and dull. It was, if it could be said of such a thing, an ugly rose.
The time came for picking.
The tiny, pale rose, the one with giant defensive thorns, was left alone. The beautiful rose, on the other hand, was picked in the bloom of its life as soon as it was spied.
The beautiful rose died quickly after that, but not before it was taken inside and placed with other beautiful roses in the center table of the most amazing ball held that year at the rich man’s house. As the beautiful rose perished, it was surrounded by an orchestra and thousands of dancing people laughing under blazing chandeliers.
A queen held the rose between her teeth, whirling with her lover before passing the rose to her daughter. The princess held the rose behind her ear. Placed in such a position, the rose heard the secrets whispered to the princess by her suitors. The music swelled, the love rolled in waves, and the lights glimmered. It was as close to heaven as a rose could hope for.
The beautiful rose died happy near the lips of new lovers in a flower’s paradise.
The ugly rose, safe and protected, clung to the trellis outside. Alone. It survived the darkening of summer. It survived the rains of autumn. It lived to see the coming of the winter. It was a long time. Nothing much happened to the ugly rose in the months after the beautiful rose was taken away. Eventually it, too, died, outliving all of the other roses.
I’m not sure which rose took the right course of action or even if a true moral can be derived from this tale. But it’s something to think about.
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One rose bloomed fiercely, saving nothing for its thorns. It bloomed magnificently.
The other rose sought survival. It diverted all its energy to creating giant points along its stem. It had little left over for blooming. It resisted the unfurling. Its petals were small and dull. It was, if it could be said of such a thing, an ugly rose.
The time came for picking.
The tiny, pale rose, the one with giant defensive thorns, was left alone. The beautiful rose, on the other hand, was picked in the bloom of its life as soon as it was spied.
The beautiful rose died quickly after that, but not before it was taken inside and placed with other beautiful roses in the center table of the most amazing ball held that year at the rich man’s house. As the beautiful rose perished, it was surrounded by an orchestra and thousands of dancing people laughing under blazing chandeliers.
A queen held the rose between her teeth, whirling with her lover before passing the rose to her daughter. The princess held the rose behind her ear. Placed in such a position, the rose heard the secrets whispered to the princess by her suitors. The music swelled, the love rolled in waves, and the lights glimmered. It was as close to heaven as a rose could hope for.
The beautiful rose died happy near the lips of new lovers in a flower’s paradise.
The ugly rose, safe and protected, clung to the trellis outside. Alone. It survived the darkening of summer. It survived the rains of autumn. It lived to see the coming of the winter. It was a long time. Nothing much happened to the ugly rose in the months after the beautiful rose was taken away. Eventually it, too, died, outliving all of the other roses.
I’m not sure which rose took the right course of action or even if a true moral can be derived from this tale. But it’s something to think about.
tags