Four pale and disheveled dahlias flowers move hurriedly within the frame of the picture. They go out and come back inside; they cannot stay still in one place. Their stems tremble in such a way that it is unclear which stem supports which flower’s face.

A plant whose nature is attached to stillness, and the word “vegetative life” is born from its sedentary existence, now seems as if fire has caught its soul, and the bitter reality has crumpled its frightened face like a slap. Its ruby color does not tempt; it does not linger on lips or wine—it is burnt and angry, a bowl of blood. No tears remain for the flowers; they have dried and faded. It is as if this rebellion is their final struggle, like the flicker of a star before it goes out.