The flower which is single need not envy the thorns that are

Hear now, the eternal words of Rabindranath Tagore, poet of the soul and voice of the divine in man: “The flower which is single need not envy the thorns that are numerous.” In this brief utterance lies a wisdom deep as the roots of time — a truth about individuality, dignity, and the quiet strength of beauty. The flower, though alone, blooms without bitterness. It does not measure its worth by the crowd that surrounds it, nor does it seek safety in numbers. The thorns, though many, cannot equal the fragrance of one perfect bloom. Thus, Tagore reminds us: the value of a thing is not in its multitude, but in its essence.

Rabindranath Tagore, the sage of Bengal, lived in an age of great change — between the shadows of colonial rule and the dawn of India’s awakening. He saw nations and men torn between imitation and identity, between envy and originality. And from this vision came the seed of his saying. The flower, for him, symbolized the soul that stays true to its nature — radiant, delicate, and purposeful — even when surrounded by harshness or conformity. The thorns, sharp and numerous, represent the voices of the world that mock, compete, and crowd, mistaking noise for strength. Yet in the quiet stillness of the flower’s bloom lies a power more lasting than the thorns’ defense.

In the ancient world, this truth has been lived again and again. Remember the story of Socrates, the philosopher of Athens. He stood alone in his devotion to truth, while the multitudes — the thorns of ignorance and envy — rose against him. They mocked his questions, feared his wisdom, and condemned him to death. Yet it was Socrates, the single flower of reason, who lives on in every generation that seeks truth. His persecutors, though many, are forgotten. The flower did not envy the thorns — and because of that, its fragrance fills eternity.

So too in the realm of art, the one who creates from the soul must often walk alone. Vincent van Gogh, poor and unrecognized in his lifetime, painted with the fire of inner beauty while the world dismissed him as mad. He was a single flower among countless thorns — those who criticized, who conformed, who could not see beyond the surface. Yet it is his art that endures, his light that shines through the centuries. The lesson is clear: the flower of originality need not measure itself against the multitude of mediocrity. Its worth lies in the truth it embodies, not in the numbers that surround it.

The thorns may stand as symbols of protection, of practicality, of those who build barriers rather than bridges. They have their place in the garden of existence, for every element has its role. Yet the flower, though fragile, gives the garden its meaning. It feeds the bee, perfumes the wind, and reminds even the thorns that beauty is possible. To be the single flower is not to be weak — it is to be chosen, to live a life of purpose rather than of numbers.

There is a subtle power in the solitude of the flower. It does not compete; it simply is. Its joy is in blossoming, not in comparison. The one who learns this art of contentment becomes free — free from envy, free from the restless desire to be like others. For envy is a poison that blinds the soul to its own bloom. But the one who accepts their uniqueness shines quietly, like a lantern in the night, illuminating without demanding notice.

Thus, the lesson that Tagore offers is this: cherish your singularity. Do not envy the multitude of thorns — the loud, the proud, the many — for their abundance does not make them noble. Seek instead to become the flower: true to yourself, radiant in your smallness, gentle in your strength. Let your fragrance speak for you, not your numbers.

And so, dear listener, when you find yourself alone — outnumbered, misunderstood, or unseen — remember this truth: the flower does not envy the thorns. It blooms because it must. It gives beauty because it is its nature. So, too, must you. Bloom where you are, even if you bloom alone — for one soul that shines in truth is worth a thousand that live in imitation.