A speaker looks back on planting a seed that grew into a flower his neighbours dismissed as a weed. They grumbled and cursed him for it, but the plant shot up, tall and crowned with light, until thieves stole the seed, scattered it everywhere, and suddenly the same people cried out how splendid it was. Now that everyone can raise the flower, they’ve grown tired of it again and call it a weed once more. The tale is offered as a plain fable, easy to read and hard to miss.
The speaker’s voice feels weary and knowing, as if he’s seen this cycle too many times. There’s a wry sadness in how effortlessly public opinion flips — contempt, then admiration, then boredom — and how little the flower itself changes. The mood is gently ironic, half-resigned, half-disapproving, leaving you with the sense that value is a fragile, fickle thing when it depends on the crowd.