a butterfly won't linger til it's wings
are torn and tattered,
as if only one thing mattered:
it's own being.
once leaving 'wormhood' off for splendor,
once the crysallis transcending,
doffs it's former gluttony for
sipping amrit nectar...
a butterfly makes love, then dies.
and doesn't moments borrow,
nor barters for tomorrows
it might see.
instead, with beauty realized,
and stained glass wings against the skies,
declares her truth, elusively
then disappears forever.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Hello Again, This is really such a lovely poem. I love butterflies. At one time I planned to return as one but then read the history of their short lives. So I decided to write about them instead. I have been painting some in watercolors. Thank you for this gem! It's never to late to read a good poem. Dorothy A Poet Who Loves to Sing