Why is it that sometimes,
whenever we come across a flower
whose beauty stops us in our tracks,
and whose scent lures us in so greatly
that we are no better than the bees of the hive, 
we feel the need to tear her out of the ground?
Why do we enjoy plucking her petals one by one? 
Playing silly games— 
“She loves me, she loves me not…” 
Does this torment entertain us, 
or do we just like to feel in charge?
When we put her, half-dead, in a vase,
so we can keep a piece of that beauty in our houses, 
do we not grasp that we've ended her sacred journey 
far too soon?