A cactus grew in a pretty garden of roses;
No one knows how she ended up there.
Maybe the wind brought her there from the desert of Moses;
Or perhaps she was planted there by the warm summer rain with care.

The cactus had not a friend or a foe;
All the pretty roses around her did grow;
They looked at her with utter disdain;
Away from her, they had to remain.

Year after year the rose bushes grew;
Their pretty blossoms and oh the crowds they drew.
No one looked at the corner where the old cactus grew;
There, only the dirt from their dusty boots flew.

Fed up with her fate the cactus asked the roses:
You have thorns, and so do I,
Then why are we treated so differently by the passers-by?
It's not the thorns that the people look for; it's our bright red blossoms that the people adore.
That moment the cactus knew her worth,
In the eyes of the world, she was nothing if a blossom she couldn't birth.