In a garden long untended and forgotten, there grew a tangle of brambles, thorns, weeds and ivy. All the paths that had once bloomed with the silver radiance of hollyhock and jasmine were now overgrown with masses of clover and kudzu. And yet amidst this suffocating array, a small green stem pushed its way up, slowly inching towards the blue expanse above it.
Day by day, hour by hour, moment by moment it pushed its way up.
The weeds grew all the more, and the soil was taken up with their roots, but they could not stifle the little flower that so stubbornly kept its course. Its cause unrequited, its persistence only grew in the fertile soil. Nothing could stop it. The wind blew; the bud bent in temporary suspension. The rain poured; its eager roots absorbed the fodder. The sun beat upon it in increasing heat; it lifted its lip-like petals upwards and blinked at the rays.
Now, a certain prince owned this garden. Back in the rule of his father, before the old courtyard had fallen into ruins, the garden had been famous and well-tended. After the city was besieged in a conflict and the place left awry, the garden was left to the mercy of the elements. The prince, however, grew curious at the old garden, and one day decided to take a ramble through it to see what had become of it.
He stepped through the moss-covered gates, and beheld the skeletonal forms of old birch trees, their bark falling off in curly strips and their branches laced with spider webs. He looked at the weeds that sprung through the cracks on the cobbled walk and the clover that covered the once-blooming flower beds. His eyes saw nothing but shades of gray and green, an entangled mass of wildness.
And then something caught his eye – something far off in the corner of the garden…something small and bright.
There, beneath all the brush and weeds, grew the little stem, which had budded and blossomed into a rose. Its delicate petals were thrust upwards, edged with dew; its hue shone brilliant in the damp morning light; its thorn-laced stem was strong and sturdy.
The prince looked admiringly at the little rose. Plucking it from the foul garden in which it grew, he turned back towards his castle, where he gave it to his sweetheart. She pinned it up in her hair, and wore it as a token of his love. And though it had been plucked from the soil, the rose continued to bloom, and lived on in perpetual blossom.
A/N: I think the allegory in this is rather strong, but any comments or interpretations are appreciated.