The waterfall, thought as brave,Viewed as unwearable, unstoppable, ablaze,Secretly cowers and hopes to end its daysBut continues to roar and never strays.The brambles, viewed as fierce and tough,Ignorant, guarded, as if they’ve had enoughAnd stay like that until they wither,Pretending to be cool and tastelessly blither.The garden, swaying with the windSeen as vulnerable, flimsy, weak, and thinBut only leans with this harsh blowBecause it has learned to go with the flow.The ocean, scrubbing away at the sand,Knows it could do something much more grandBut still tries to reach for the landWith a watery, frothy, desperate hand.The dirt, seen as filthy and rotted,With jewels and gems its depths are dottedBut still it chooses to follow the dark wayFor it’s afraid to be seen with a happy day.The pebble, smoothed down by the stream,Seen as solitary, so hadn’t tried to join a teamAnd as it tried to let out a screamBeneath the waters, it was held, serene.But the rose, viewed as superficial behind thornsWas expected to laugh with pity and scornAt the ugly weeds as they were promptly pickedBut instead it didn’t, thoughtful to contradict.And until this very significant momentIt had been waiting for the bestowmentOf the gift it had long ago earned:The petals it has, since young age, yearned.And this is how the rose gained its beauty,For performing a kind act, a necessity, a duty,And now you look at the rose and think prettyInstead of low, arrogant, and gritty.