She is old and withering.
Night and day she would sit in the gallery, without movement.
The only water that she absorbs is
the one that falls from the sky, and into her resting place.
The salty wind that blows in her path preserves her
another second...another minute... another hour...another day.

She can no longer even make a good cup of tea.
Hard, dry, wrinkled and crumbling…
her lack of water causes her once beautiful pink leaves
to fall off one by one… decomposing an d deteriorating...

Children walk by picking at her every moment
never leaving her be.
It gets worse every second…
Her life span is not very long…
The hands of death are grasping at her stem.