Where does the butterfly go
When all the flowers are gone?

From whence does he pull a draught
Of nectar to soothe his body and mind?

His wings falter at the cutting breeze
For ‘tis already the cusp of winter.

He no longer has the healing tonic
Of her blossom as night falls down

And so he succumbs to his fate
Laying down in the freezing dew

Dreaming of the days of spring-
Of the orchid bud he once knew.