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Butterfly
It used to keep the sense of spring
And watch the azure silk of sky.
The spot of May was on its wing.
It used to dream. It used to fly.
Its spirit full of blooming life;
Naïve and pure, could reach the sun.
But now it has to face the strife
And lose its flowers one by one.
The bottle is too small for it
And the water cold and wet
Is drowning colors bit by bit,
Although the life is pulsing yet.
It used to fly. It used to love
And now the future has to die.
It knows: the end is near enough
But still, it hopes to see the sky.
