The season of butterflies is the season of dragonflies
Hovering in a breeze that controls their fate.
Seen like that, trying to keep control, but edging forward,
They form a silhouette squadron destined for destruction.
Close to, their colours multiply.
Shades of crimson, orange-yellow or an uncamouflaged black and white,
An array the watcher cannot identify without resorting to violence,
To damaging action that holds the moment by marring it.
The darkening clouds over the encircling hills
Become belligerent with the groans of dusk,
Filling us with hope that by folding our wings and huddling in clusters
We, too, shall survive the night.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem