The poet

Last night near the lake, I sat by a butterfly. She flew to a pebble, numb; While a tear fell from her eye. Rested a while and took flight again; Dragged her body around the place, Kept to float without a rhyme, Crammed with eternal pain. Ending the stern glide, took halt by a tree, While I lurched along, craved the cause of her grief. Crouched on to my palm, the gem spoke its heart out; She wanders the valley seeking her flower, Part of her daily bout. She used to sit on the blossom, Feel its silky snug, balm of petal soothed her wings, Her flights were never struck. Long does she remember, A fierce wind blew her flower, The petals of her heart shred, Nature’s puppet with a broken thread. As she moves with the breeze, Willing to go abode, to find shelter in her blossom, Her wings carry all the load. There she goes soaring high; But I saw the broken wing, And was baffled to see her courage! Waiting for the breeze to sing, She comes by the lake everyday. If you see her, do tell her again, Millions of winds may pass away, “But her flower’s smell will always remain.”