He went back and forth, passing by the same bush every time.
Then he noticed a deep red rose rising tall.
Had it always been there, or did he just notice it?
Drawn to the rose, he wanted to pluck it but was wary of the thorns all around it.
He raised his hand toward it, and as if it understood, the rose shed all its thorns.
Alas, he picked it up and brought it to his face to smell its sweet perfume.
He loved holding the rose just as the rose loved being in his hand.
He is walking again with his rose held loosely at his side.
He does not think he is worthy of such a gem, a rose that shed its thorns to let him pluck it.
Perhaps, he shall let it fall to the pavement so someone more worthy might pick it up.
Perhaps, he shall trample it without even knowing.
Who would want the rose then, all trodden and damaged?