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If someone loves a flower of which just one example exists among all the millions and millions of stars, that’s enough to make him happy when he looks at the stars. He tells himself, “my flower’s up there somewhere…”
But if the sheep eats the flower, then for him it’s as if, suddenly, all the stars went out. And that isn’t important?
“You’re lovely, but you’re empty,” he went on. “One couldn’t die for you. Of course, an ordinary passerby would think my rose looked just like you. But my rose, all on her own, is more important than all of you together, since she’s the one I watered.
Since she’s the one I put under glass.
Since she’s the one I sheltered behind a screen.
Since she’s the one for whom I killed the caterpillars.
Since she’s the one I listened to when she complained, or when she boasted, or even sometimes when she said nothing at all.
Since she’s my rose.”
You risk tears if you let yourself be tamed.