THE WINGED SECRET
My great, great grandfather told
my great grandfather who told
my grandfather about the mystery
of butterflies.
According to him,
butterflies never die natural deaths.
Unless we crush them, or spray on them,
or, God forbid, eat them,
they will fly forever
into the garden of melancholy.
The butterfly, he said, whispers its secrets to
the flowers that never listen.
It nuzzles and kisses them, extols their scents.
But the stamens and pistils are lovers
that don’t believe the murmurs
of a vagrant rainbow.
And so the butterfly flutters away
to other flowers that are still heedless.
It wanders in the woods, in the rice fields,
in the riverbanks, into the oblivious sky
until it reaches the infinite horizon.
By then, the butterfly is worn-out,
but still beautiful.
And now that I’m flying away,
the age-old secrets that I now bear
are too wonderful to whisper.
my great grandfather who told
my grandfather about the mystery
of butterflies.
According to him,
butterflies never die natural deaths.
Unless we crush them, or spray on them,
or, God forbid, eat them,
they will fly forever
into the garden of melancholy.
The butterfly, he said, whispers its secrets to
the flowers that never listen.
It nuzzles and kisses them, extols their scents.
But the stamens and pistils are lovers
that don’t believe the murmurs
of a vagrant rainbow.
And so the butterfly flutters away
to other flowers that are still heedless.
It wanders in the woods, in the rice fields,
in the riverbanks, into the oblivious sky
until it reaches the infinite horizon.
By then, the butterfly is worn-out,
but still beautiful.
And now that I’m flying away,
the age-old secrets that I now bear
are too wonderful to whisper.
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