Far in the East lies a place called Smyrna. There, the sun shines brightly, and the wind carries the scent of flowers. Tall sycamore trees stand along the roadside, beneath which a caravan of camels moves slowly. Their necks stretch long as they carry cloth, spices, and clay pots, step by step along the dirt path.
Nearby stands a row of rosebushes, blooming with pink flowers.Wild pigeons fluttered among the branches, their wings glistening in the sunlight like tiny mirrors.
Among these roses, one stood out as the fairest of them all. Deep red and fragrant, its petals layered like the skirt of a young girl. Each evening, a nightingale would alight on a nearby branch and sing.Its song was soft, as if speaking: “I love you, rose. You are my light.”
But the rose never answered. It neither spoke nor stirred. Its head remained bowed low toward several large gray stones.
The Rose’s Pride
One day, the rose finally spoke. It whispered softly, “These songs are useless to me. I know I am a special flower.”
It glanced at the earth beneath its feet and continued, “Here lies the world’s greatest poet—Homer. He wrote the Iliad, telling tales of heroes and wars. After his death, he became soil. And I? I grew from his very earth. I am the rose upon his grave—no ordinary flower.”
“Therefore,” the rose declared, “I should not bloom for a mere bird.Though it can sing, it is merely passing through. I, however, am part of history, sacred. I cannot be moved so easily.”
The nightingale continued to sing. It knew not what the rose was thinking, only that it loved this flower. It sang all night long, its voice growing weaker and weaker. Finally, it fell from the branch and died in silence.
The Little Boy Buries the Bird
Just then, a caravan approached. A dark-skinned servant led camels while a man in robes walked ahead. His young son trailed behind and spotted the dead nightingale.
The child crouched down and gently picked it up. The bird’s body was still warm, its eyes closed as if asleep.He walked to the stone beside the rose, dug a small hole with his hands, placed the nightingale inside, and covered it with soil.
“You sang for so long,” he said, “now rest well.”
The rose watched all this, its petals trembling slightly. When the wind blew, it seemed to nod.
Night was falling. The rose closed all its petals, as if sleeping. It had a dream.
The Rose’s Dream
In the dream, sunlight bathed the earth. A group of people approached from afar, speaking different languages and wearing varied clothing. They were foreigners, visiting Homer’s tomb.
One man stood out. He came from the far north, where winters were long and colorful lights danced across the night sky—people called them the “Northern Lights.”
This foreigner was a poet. He approached the rose, gently plucked it, and said, “What a beautiful flower! I shall take it home.”
He tucked the rose between the pages of an old book. That book was Homer’s Iliad.
The rose slowly dried within the pages, its color fading. Lying in the darkness, it heard the wind, the sound of vehicles, and the voices of strangers.It knew it was heading to a distant place.
One day, the poet from the northern land opened the book. He gazed at the withered rose and murmured softly, “This rose was plucked from Homer’s grave.”
In its dream, the rose heard these words. Its heart suddenly grew still and content.
After the Dream
The rose awoke. Dawn had just broken, and wind brushed its petals. A dewdrop slid from its stem, landing precisely where the nightingale was buried.
The sun climbed higher, warming the air. The rose bloomed redder and sweeter than yesterday. No longer gazing down at the stone, it lifted its head to face the sunlight.
Soon, footsteps echoed again. The foreigners had truly arrived! They held maps, pointing toward Homer’s tomb.
Among them was the poet from the northern lands. He approached the rose and gazed at it silently for a long time. Then, he gently plucked the fresh bloom and kissed its petals.
He carried the flower back to his homeland, pressing it into the pages of The Iliad.
Many years later, people discovered this dried rose in his book. It lay there like an ancient scrap of paper. Someone opened the book and read the words: “This is a rose from Homer’s tomb.”
The Truth Behind the Story
On the surface, this tale tells of a rose, a nightingale, and a poet’s encounter. But what it truly asks is: What is true value?
At first, the rose felt noble, growing upon the grave of a great poet. It looked down on the nightingale, deeming its love too common.Yet in the end, what truly made the rose memorable wasn’t its pride, but the process of being picked, carried away, and treasured.
Though the nightingale died, its love was sincere. Though the boy was just a child, he understood how to respect life. And that poet from the North—he didn’t flaunt it, but quietly took the flower away, allowing it to continue existing in a new place.
This rose did not remain “high and mighty” where it grew; it truly lived on through being remembered and told.
What Lesson Does This Story Teach Us?
- True value lies not in how high you stand, but in whether you can touch hearts. The rose thought itself sacred, yet if unseen and untouched, it would simply wither where it stood.
- Love and respect matter more than status and position. The nightingale was ordinary, yet its song was sincere; the little boy was small, yet he knew to bury a bird. These small acts hold greater power than pride.
- True immortality lies in being remembered. Homer died centuries ago, yet his tales endure; the rose withered, but people still see it when they open a book. This proves that as long as someone remembers you, you never truly vanish.
- Don’t look down on others just because you feel special. The rose initially rejected the nightingale, believing it unworthy. Yet every sincere emotion deserves respect.
So this story teaches us:
You needn’t stand atop the highest peak to matter, As long as you once existed with tenderness, Someone will always remember you, Like that rose, Quietly resting within a book, Yet telling a story that lasts forever.
