There once was a king. He was not wise or smart, but because he was king everyone praised him. He would condemn the innocent and those around said they deserved it; all because he was king. The king did not know the meaning of hard work. Simply because he was pampered and didn't have to lift a finger for anything.
Now there was another man who was in the lowest of positions. Even the peasants spat upon him when seen, and the fact of the matter was he didn't deserve it. He was a slave. Born into such a dire situation. He worked day and night till his brow bled and his back grew tired. He would work hard hoping that someday his actions would allow him freedom.
The slave began to work in the foolish kings gardens. He worked putting his tears into the garden to make its beauty flourish.
The king saw his gardens and would say, "look at my garden. Look at how amazing it is." He took the credit of the slave, and none questioned him.
After many years the king went back to his garden. He was angered at the sight he saw. Nearly every plant was shriveled and life seemed none existent in such a place. He demanded to know who did this to his garden. A servant ran up to the king and told him the slave that had once taken care of the gardens had taken his own life, and that the garden seemed to be in mourning of such things.
The king was taken aback by such an answer. He wished to know more about the man who could make the plants weep over his death, but because of the brand of being a slave the king found no such information about the man. He found only the snickers of prideful men who would say, "Who cares about such a lowly person? He is of no concern for me." Such answers appalled the king.
That night he cried himself to sleep saying, "If only I had done more. If only I had done something."
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