A Rose...

When spring arrives each year, the processions of life throng about it, and intoxicated wishes dance along its fringes; it breathes its secrets into the beds of the valleys and upon the heights of the peaks and hills; life smiles at life, and Nature laughs in a riotous rapture, welcoming the herald of youth, having cast off her veil so that what was hidden of her secrets stands revealed — as though she lived for the hour, caring nothing for the curiosity of eyes... And one of the buds opened upon little red petals, still moist with the breaths of morning, and began shedding the drops of dew to leave the gilded rays of the sun a path to its depths, and to enjoy the warmth of the light, having had its fill of the dew's kisses and the ticklings of the breeze.

And how sweet it was to me to watch it among the beds of roses and the gatherings of birds; and the world of spring rose up before me, with all its gaiety and splendor and sweeping magic, and I sank into seas of dreaming delight.

I went back to contemplating the rose, and I was struck by its deep crimson color, and by its glances that mocked at life — shown in its head, held as high as the head of the haughty, and in fine-honed thorns of which the covetous take a thousand counts...

And I heard a bulbul singing.

How happy you are, my rose: you open your eyes to the babbling of the brook, you suck the nectar of the dew for drink, you bathe in the flood of the pouring rays; then you go flirting with the colored butterflies as they kiss every flower and press their lips to every bud — until, when the sun gathers in her threads and the day goes off stumbling in its skirts, you surrender your eyes to the dominion of darkness and fall to dreaming, or to chewing over your waking dreams... And the bulbul kept up his song. You could hear the beating of his heart in his melodies as he scattered his songs here and there... until, when he alighted upon the red rose, the melodies rose from him in a crowding rush, mingled with plaintive sorrow and longing, as though his heart had leapt into his very throat.

And the singer's voice went on rising and falling, until its beauty took possession of the enchanting rose's heart, and she swayed with vanity and pride — for had not the singer singled her out for his confidences, apart from all her companions, pouring out his soul as an offering at her shrine?

How great is your vanity, my flower, and how quickly the ring of the songs dies away! Do you take life for an everlasting spring and a youth forever renewed? No, no — the cold fingers of extinction lie in wait; they press, and leave nothing and spare nothing...

Such is life, my rose: it begins with a smile on Nature's lips, but the end is a burning tear upon her cheek!

You the winds scatter; us the fates scatter... but it is death either way! So enjoy life, my rose, but take warning from the end: for tomorrow, when summer has settled in, and winter comes on with a roar that deafens the stillness of autumn, and Nature huddles beneath the white veils of frost, the earth will begin to absorb your elements, to bring them forth shining in the second spring as a rose whose share of magic and charm may be ampler than yours.

And who knows? An idle hand may reach out to you even now and pluck you, to pin you in the buttonhole of a jacket, or to adorn with you the breast of a bride, or to leave you upon the grave of a dear departed one.

I said this, and looked at the rose, to take with me one long look; and I saw the dewdrops gathering on its little red petals and scattering down as tears... upon the face of the earth.