Perspective Of A Butterfly
I come to visit that small green patch, lined with erica palms, and the ungainly sweet neem tree.
It's tender leaves respond to my touch as if playing with me.
My friend and me, we also flutter by those potted dots of yellows and reds.
We flap our wings to wish the new ones lovely morning as we fly by their beds.
Then we see two bobbing heads that do not belong to the patch.
Sitting not very far away In deep contemplative survey.
They, bob and sway, look and speak, and sometimes walk away.
They come again another day, other days and refuse to go away.
We hear them speak and watch their gait. All that seem to suggest, a curious usurper's trait.
They gaze at the greens, the grass and trees, the flowers, and buds;
with insolent ownership pride that hurts.
They stare at our black and dotted wings;
with a peculiar proprietal twinge.
I however dance with my friend and create a symphony.
And let all who care to know
I belong to the greens and the greens belong to me.