Poem by a chokwadi:

[from May 19, 1999:]

Immortal Flowers

Flowers don't die
They just wither

I finally threw that
old rose away
That an admirer (not of me)
gave my boss.

It wasn't dead
Just old
It withered itself
into a crispy
burgundy color
And made the water
it sat in
mirky

Had I left it
in the water
It would have
continued
Until completely
dry

But death
Oh no

A flower cannot die.