I am the proudest red rose in the rose garden. My petals are layered like sunset clouds, and dew always crowns me with diamonds in the morning. The gardener always said, "This is the most perfect flower I have ever seen."
Until that day, a weed emerged from a crack in the stone. Its thin stalks are like malnourished children, and its leaves are still stained with soil. I shook off the dew contemptuously: "Go away, don't dirty my territory." The weeds are swaying gently in the wind: "I just want to bask in the sun."
The drought of the summer solstice came off guard. The petals of the roses began to roll, and my crown broke into pieces. The gardener stopped watering. He said, "This is natural selection." I looked at the grass in despair, but it still stood tall. "Why?" I asked huskily.
"Because my roots are deeper." The grass gently shook its leaves. "Look, there are secrets hidden in the soil under our feet." I looked down and found that my roots were like gorgeous corals, while the roots of weeds were like tough iron wires, penetrating layers of hardened clods and even tightly wrapped in a piece of broken porcelain.
"A long time ago, this place was in ruins." Weeds said, "Our ancestors struggled out of the rubble." It shook off the dust on the leaves, revealing a light golden grain. "Every scar is a medal."
Late that night, I heard my roots crackle in the soil. I learned the appearance of weeds and stuck my roots deeper into the darkness. When the first drop of dew fell, I saw the weeds spreading their leaves before dawn, and the soil that I had laughed at was shining like pearls at the moment.
Today we still grow side by side. My petals are no longer perfect, but there are many vicissitudes of life; The leaves of weeds are always rough, but they can catch every falling dew. The gardener no longer praises me, but often squats in a daze by the crack of the stone. He doesn't know that in those forgotten corners, once proud roses and humble weeds are weaving the web of life with roots.