"On a cold winter night, a young man wanted to invite the girl he secretly adored to dance. He needed a red rose, but despite his long search, he could only find white roses,"
"A nightingale perched on the branch was moved by his affection. It pressed its breast against the rose's spikes and sang throughout the night under the moonlight. The white rose was dyed red by its blood, and the young man finally got the red rose he needed to court her."
"The nightingale died clinging to a hope for love, yet the young man was rejected by the girl for his poverty. In his anger, he threw the red rose into the gutter, and the wheels of a passing chariot crushed its petals."
"'Look, look!' the great tree cried, 'The rose is ready.' But the nightingale did not reply, for it lay dead among the bushes, with the thorn still lodged in its heart."
"...That is the end of the story."
