¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ To my tiny—so tiny, tiny butterfly: To my muse of childhood lullaby: To my fair maid in seas of chai: all at once, I do love you! You left me then, but then came back!
Oh, you came back, my tiniest butterfly! I see you flap your wings as you do sing your artful tone through pipes that lead to nowhere.
Oh! There! You perch atop a belle— that blade of grass you call your own! You eat of the Earth; but your mind is accursed of countless mites that leech upon your tiny—so tiny brain.
To my butterfly, your brood will all sing the same: so tiny, so, so tiny the flying of butter!
Oh!
Please come hither to me, hitherto the brink of reality; alight on my fingertips and stay with me, you stupid, whimsical insect. For once, I called you my own, my tiny butterfly. So butter—such tiny, flying butter— so fly. So—fly away? Then go and fly!
Let the wind guide you! You have no place here, friend. May the owlet never find you. Though, I'd say you deserve to die as I, you twisted, unforgiving bug! You’re useless to me now, but I love you like the day I stumbled upon your thought of me.
Once you were a curse to me, and now you are but dust to me.
So go and see what waits for thee in the unforgiving world of endless, moldy windowsills!