I found her.
She is the most beautiful women I have ever seen in my life.
She lives in the next town over. the only reason I saw her in my poor town was that she had to pass through here on her way home. She passed my hovel on her way, her jewellery and furs trying desperately to compete with her beauty. She shone like a morning star defiant against the world. Light spilled out from her every movement until I stood blinded by her. She spoke with such a soft voice that the clouds stopped moving lest they crush her voice. She walked like a queen surveying her adoring people. She stole from me my heart, and I let her.

I spoke to her, my rasping farmers voice needles in her sensuous ears. She did no more than look at me with her emerald eyes her eyelids batted and the breeze knocked the breath from me. She walked away, I am but a poor farmer, no wonder she turned from me, my heart still in her jewelled hands.

A gift, I said, I shall give her a gift so she may know my love for her.

I have so little, I thought, a pretty gem I have. She rejected such a senseless trinket, she has many pretty gems, all far better than my own.

My ring, I give her, she rejects it. I do not blame her, it is old, she has many new rings far shinier than my own.

A plan. Her house is so cold, deep in the city, it is big, but no flowers do I see. All women like flowers, and life is something everyone likes. But I am poor. I know wild flowers are too common for her, she deserves a precious flower, rare and beautiful. Only the best can I give her, only the best does she deserve. But those flowers are expensive, and they grow far away, I have no way to get one to her. But a plan do I have.

I grow my crops, I work extra hard and grow the best crop I have ever grown before. I sell it all, I trade it for a better crop and one favour. I grow this harder, but better crop, it leaves me tired but it grows well under my care. I trade this crop for yet a better one, and yet another favour. I work, my body sore, my stomach empty, my heart in her hands.
Yet another crop, yet another favour.

Ten favours and ten good crops leave me tired and poor.
I trade these favours.
One for soil.
One for information.
One for transportation.
One for a pillow of silk.
One for a golden box.
One for pure fresh water.
Two for a single seed.
One for a cage.
One for later.

The seed I place into the soil, the best soil there is. I water the seed with the freshest and most pure water there is. With proper information I grow the seed in the best light and water it exactly as it needs. I trim and care for the plant. A cage I place around it so it may be safe as it blossoms.

All who see this flower weep at its beauty, many compliments I receive for it. Many promise great wealth to posses it, but it is a gift for my love in exchange for her heart. Their wealth, I say, means less to me.

At the right moment, the leaves wet with dew I cut. The single precious flower, the most beautiful I have ever seen I place on the pillow, so delicate am I the petals do not sway so much as a bit. In the golden box I place the pillow, the lid I close, gently, softly.

I take the box, pillow, and flower, to her house. I go slow, the flower is so rare, so delicate, so beautiful. I travel a long ways, never daring to peek at the flower, lest the light burn its delicate features before it is ready.

With nervous steps I reach her door. Myself a flutter, my pulse quickens as the door opens. Inside her home, so cold and bland, every surface is gold or in gems. Worthless I say, without life beside, to make it attractive.

Such a beautiful flower for such a beautiful flower. Her radiance blinds me, my tongue dries up, and my legs melt to the floor. I hand, with trembling arms, the precious flower in the golden box atop the pillow, to her. She takes the box from me, her warm hands touching mine for a moment as my world explodes in joy.

She holds the box, her eyes alight, a smile spreads across her face, her teeth like so many pearls against her ruby lips. She opens the box, her hand slips inside.

She holds aloft the precious flower, the only of its kind. So rare and so beautiful, ever more in her delicate hands. Over my head she throws the flower, her eyes fixed on the plain golden box. Her back she turns to me as the door crushes my nose.

I am a poor farmer, but I see she is a poor soul. So blinded by gold she failed to see true beauty before her very eyes. I stood before her invisible, as worthless to her as the most precious flower. I turn to see my hard work crushed, a single tear escapes my eye as I see now I am as guilty as she.
So blinded by gold I failed to see the dirt and the grime buried not far beneath. So sorry am I that a wondrous flower had to be killed for me to see she is not worth the love put into such a precious thing.