I kneel on tarmac under blackened sky
No creature, breath or breeze here spoils the peace
And on my knuckle rests a butterfly
I shudder from the cold, his heartbeats cease
No frail and fragile flight did he achieve:
His wings were sealed together from his birth
And for that molten moment I believe
How much to him his simple flight is worth
I leave him in a hawthorn bush to fight
Against the hungry shadows, sneaking forth
I didn’t have the heart to end his plight
I feel as cruel as winter in the north
When life, then death are held with open hands
The wielder, faced with God, now understands