A fly  died in my bath today ,
a butterfly on the stairs
I know of not how or why ,
they had to die ,
O mournful s pity cry .
For  that what was flying about and knew that it must die, for it
in water it found not wings that it might fly ?
For  it was such a dainty pritty thing ,
O mournful pity’s cry !

Then as for the butterfly that fluttered for a time ,
that it held its wings in valor
to never give up the fight .
For I know not why ,
it even chose to die,
that I should weep for a butterfly ?


Was  it the stairwell  that gave it  it’s bars ,?
It’s lack of light
and pouted air ?

to what even brought it here ?
Or why it felt it had to die ?
O mournful pity’s cry .


It is these things that trouble me most ,
that of all of Gods creation he might boast ,
that he God made such fastidious  things as these .
That  flies might  scavage and feast on rotting flesh ,
that the butterfly and flower should dare with paint
and brush colour Gods earth with love for us .

That one should be so hated ,
the other loved beyond belief ,
yet both had their part to play ,
‘ that a fly might even cry ,
for the loss of its lover as it was passing by ,
that it should find no other,
then die .