The Gardener's Rose
was not young and not old, not pretty and not ugly. He had no name,
nor a title. He was just the Gardener who walked along the stone path
that led through wide fields full of flowers and plants surrounded
by forest and trees.
Gardener had only three tools: a small watering can, a small shovel
and a scythe. Slowly and deliberately the Gardener approached a small
hill; he was not in a hurry. Green grass covered the ground and most
of these grass plants were healthy and strong. Amidst the grass was a
small bare spot in which a small Rose grew. It was young and strong
and full of urge to live. A single bud grew vertically up and you
could see a few dark red petals. The Rose's heart was a little too
deep into the soil, so the Gardener bent down, took his small shovel
and freed it from its load. He touched the soil with his wrinkled
hand, it was wet enough.