A delicate flower
dances in the garden
swayed under a gentle breeze
On a stormy night
the rough hands arrive—
the flower torn away and
placed between
the wooden sheets
Slowly and gradually
the bolts are tightened
the flower compressed
inside the flower press
The flower can’t breathe
nor can it move
in the airless dark chamber
Its fragrance slowly gone
the petals wilted away
its colour now faded
The rough hands are proud
that they’ve kept the flower
Like a decorative item
they look at it and smile
and show the world
their prized possession
how they’ve preserved
The flower still remains
but just in a name
Everyone calls it a flower
but no one ever asked—
what does the flower
call itself?