I planted her in a rusty tin
filled with black earth

I let time pass because I was told
that something like a white hand would open
just one night each year

Now I come back to find
a dry corpse hanging
from a most weary stalk

Not a trace of the perfume
everyone spoke so highly of
or the flower´s silver, white light

And, to top it off, a bug
who came too late to sip the nectar
perhaps a bit sad as well