Freedom - the birth of a butterfly.
What mysteries surround the loom That spun so intricate a tomb? Or shroud, perhaps, one could suppose, Made not for death, but sweet repose, For Winter's bitter child has passed, To bring the bee and bud at last, And rouse you from your silken bed, To watch your sluggish image shed. Frail creature slip your shrivelled skin, Where soundly you have slept within, And writhe and twist to struggle free, While Nature waits expectantly, For time has kept her solemn vow, Unfastening your prison now, To lift you gently to the sky, An iridescent butterfly.
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|Date:||Mar 1, 1993|