A butterfly exhibits its pretty colors
Leaving its prints on all the flowers
It fly's free, through gardens and weeds
Sipping the liquid that its body needs
Its veins fill up with fine red wine
And its wings take it to a roses vine
When it finds out how short its life will be
It returns to its flower and waits to see
It stands on a petal, patiently trying
To reach and sip what was left of the wine
And that day, it died, holding on to that rose
Holding on with devotion, to the flower it chose.
C.vergara
04.22.2009
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem