I am a fresh red rose blooming in a palace-garden. I was born last night along with the other roses. Few dew drops rested on my petals until the sun appeared. I know that the gardener will come after some time and pluck me in a cane-busket, and then take me to the palace. The gardener will hand over the busketful of flowers to the personal maid of the young princess. She will then sort out the best roses of various colours red, yellow and white.
She will place the choicest roses in an aristocratic Czechoslovakian glass vase beside the soft and pink bed of the princess. I may be or may not be there in the selected bunch. If not, I may be thrown through the window in the passage outside. A sweeper will come with a broom to clean the passage and pick me for the dustbin. My look will gradually fade during the day. After dusk, my petals will naturally shrivel and wrinkle for want of moisture. Thus it will bring an end to my one-day life.
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