I bear red roses and I have a brother who is a wild rose plant, he bears pale wild roses. I've beautiful sisters, who grow in various gardens. They bear flowers that are very rich in scent and are really colourful varying from pure white, yellow, pink to deep crimson.
I was planted in the garden of a small, but pretty house. It's a little away from a busy road and so, comparatively quite. A little boy could see me all day from his bedroom. My passion-red flowers would give him delight. The sweet scent and beauty of my flowers filled his heart. He drew solace from the sight of my green leaves hanging over the branches. I always wondered why the boy never came out to play in the garden. It was only much later that I learnt he was very ill. Death was waiting for him. He was always bedridden. I wished he would recover very soon. But unfortunately, one day he died. I was grief-stricken because he and I shared a silent bond and we were more like companions.

One day the gardener pruned me. I resented but later learnt that this was necessary for producing fine flowers. I was given rich manure. The gardener spared no effort to make me blooms. When a blight came over me, the gardener tended me lovingly and treated with proper chemicals. I became healthier. I began to sprout forth the most splendid red roses. The colour and texture of my flowers are brilliant. My mistress admires them greatly. The rose is called the queen of flowers. But I have sharp thorns. Thus, I remind all that life is not only a bed of roses, but it also has thorns.

However, the little daughter of my mistress considered me as her won friend. She would stare at me for hours at length. She would watch with her eager eyes for the first buds to bloom. Then she would follow the life of each flower - how the petals opened, how they bloomed into a full grown flower. My flowers excelled other flowers of the garden in sweetness and beauty.

One day the little girl died of dengue. That day too, I was in full bloom. I sadly offered my flowers to the gardener. He plucked and put them in a basket. Tears were rolling down his cheeks. He took apart each petal. These were strewn on her dead body. I was also weeping. I only recited a poem silently :
"Like the weal and woe of life,
We're together, you and me."
I've grown old and my leaves have withered. Now, I also long for death, and I'm counting my days.

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