It was true that the rose was very beautiful, but the vase on the windowsill did not care to hear about it. Whenever the rose would sing, “I’m the most beautiful rose in the world,” the vase would respond by saying, “Yeah buddy, I’ve heard it all before."
Still the rose continued flattering himself: “Lady of the House selected me from all of the other roses, so that I alone could relax in a crystal vase on her windowsill and prettify her house with my bright red petals and sweet candy scent. I am the most beautiful rose in the world.”
And the vase said sarcastically, “Sure buddy, you’re the tops.”
But after some time, when the rose began to lose his sweet scent, and when his petals turned from bright red to dull brown, he began to question his stature. “If I were such a beautiful rose,” he pondered aloud, “then why did Lady pluck me from the garden and curse me to rot in this filthy water? Oh, why would she do this me? Just look at my petals, I’m wilting!”
The vase responded with a curt aphorism. “Buddy,” he said, “beauty is a quality defined by thieves.”
The rose considered what the vase said, but died before he understood the meaning. Lady of the House removed him from the vase and tossed him in the garbage can.
The following spring, when the rosebushes bloomed bright and stunning, there came yet another young rose to the windowsill singing, “I’m the most beautiful rose in the world.”
And the vase said again and again, “Yeah buddy, I’ve heard it all before.”
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