The Little Prince

In a part of the sky so distant that no telescope could see it, there lived a Little Prince on a planet no bigger than a house. His home, which he called Asteroid B-512, was just large enough for three volcanoes (two active, one dormant), a tiny house, and a single rose.

The rose was delicate and demanding. She had grown from a mysterious seed that drifted from the stars and landed gently in the Prince’s soil. The first time she bloomed, the Prince had never seen anything more beautiful. Her petals glowed faintly at night, like candlelight. But she was vain, often boasting about her beauty and needing constant attention.

Still, the Prince loved her.

Each day, he watered her, shielded her from the wind, and even listened to her proud stories about how no flower in the universe could match her charm. And though she often seemed arrogant, sometimes, just before the Prince went to sleep, the rose would whisper a thank you, or a simple “I’m glad you’re here.” And for that, he forgave everything.

One day, filled with sadness and a strange longing he didn’t understand, the Prince decided to leave his tiny world. He cleaned his volcanoes, pulled up the last baobab sprouts, and covered the rose with a glass dome.

“Don’t forget me,” said the rose, softly.

“I won’t,” said the Prince.

With the help of a flock of migrating birds, he soared into space.

The first planet he visited was ruled by a King. The King wore a golden robe and sat on a throne atop a pile of rules he had written himself.

“Ah! A subject!” the King shouted as the Prince arrived.

“I am not your subject,” said the Prince politely.

“You are if I command it,” said the King with a smile. “But I am a wise ruler. I only command what people already do.”

The Prince was puzzled. “Then what use are your commands?”

“They give order to the universe,” said the King.

The Prince didn’t feel much wiser, so he bowed and left.

The next world was home to a Vain Man, who wore a mirror around his neck.

“Clap for me!” he cried. “I am the most admirable man on this planet!”

“But you’re the only one here,” said the Prince.

“Exactly!” said the Vain Man, beaming. “That makes me the best and the most interesting!”

The Prince clapped politely, then left.

On another planet, he met a Drunkard. Bottles surrounded him—some full, some empty.

“What are you doing?” the Prince asked.

“Drinking,” said the man.

“Why?”

“To forget,” he mumbled.

“Forget what?”

“To forget that I am ashamed.”

“Of what?”

“That I drink,” the man said, and fell silent.

The Prince left, feeling sad and confused.

Then came the Businessman, who counted stars. “One, two, three, four million…”

“What do you do with them?” asked the Prince.

“I own them,” said the man.

“But you can’t touch them. You can’t take them with you.”

“They make me rich,” said the man.

The Prince thought about his rose. She belonged to no one, yet she was his because he loved her.

On the sixth planet, he met a Geographer who recorded the locations of seas, mountains, and deserts.

“Do you explore them?” asked the Prince.

“No, I am too important. I only record what explorers bring me,” said the Geographer.

“Do you record flowers?” the Prince asked eagerly.

“No. Flowers are too fleeting. They wilt and disappear.”

The Prince’s heart sank.

“My rose is fleeting,” he whispered.

And so he traveled on, feeling emptier than before.

Finally, he landed on Earth. At first, he thought the planet was deserted. Then he met a fox.

“Play with me,” said the Prince.

“I can’t,” said the fox. “I’m not tamed.”

“What does that mean?”

“To tame,” said the fox, “is to create ties. If you tame me, we will need each other. You will be unique to me, and I to you.”

The Prince thought of his rose.

“I think I am beginning to understand,” he said.

So he stayed with the fox and learned how to be patient—how to sit quietly and let time do its work. The fox taught him that what is essential is invisible to the eye.

Before leaving, the fox gave him a secret:

“It is only with the heart that one can see rightly. What is essential is invisible to the eye.”

The Prince wandered into a garden and was shocked to see hundreds of roses. They looked just like his rose.

“She told me she was unique,” the Prince said sadly.

But then he remembered the fox’s words.

“You are beautiful,” he said to the roses, “but you are not my rose. No one has watered you, or shielded you from wind. You haven’t listened to her silence or felt her warmth. She is my rose. That makes her special.”

Eventually, the Prince met a pilot who had crashed in the desert. That was me.

He told me his story while we searched for water. I fixed my plane, but the Prince said he could not stay. He missed his rose.

“She needs me,” he said. “And I need her.”

He walked out under the stars, smiling.

“If you ever look at the stars,” he said, “remember I am among them. And laugh. Because I will be laughing too.”

Now, whenever I look at the sky, I hear him. His laughter, light as bells, reminding me that love makes all things special—even a rose on a distant star.

And that what is essential is, always, invisible to the eye.