The handpicked flower doesn’t know it has died….

it still leans into the warmth of a borrowed palm,

still believes the sky is close,

that thirst is only a pause before rain.

Its fragrance keeps speaking,

long after the stem has forgotten its roots,

long after the soil has closed its mouth

and refuses to answer.

Petals rehearse memory, not loss….

they soften, they bruise, they fall

without ever naming the violence

that called it love.

If death is distance,

then the flower is innocent:

it does not measure absence,

It does not recognize abuse,

it does not accuse the hand.

It only fades,

thinking this quiet allure is rest.

Thinking this dusky mist is blessed.

©® Farheen Akter Bhuian Nancy 

Time Frame: Jan 2, 8 am, Morning, Tea, Officer’s mess