Sing me not songs of stars, Bring your ears to my breast, You will hear the songs of my heart. Not just of the moon and sun, But those of the universe.
Bring me not flowers Nor butterflies. Exalt my presence For you are rose — most pleasant And you are my butterfly — more elegant.
Take me not to places worth milk and honey, Take me to your heart The deepest and calmest part Let me rest there Under its gracious sky With you beside me, Gazing at the inner beauty of you. For no treasure is beyond there.
if you land on a flower, and you were a fluttering, beautiful butterfly, i wonder if i could become a flower that gives you honey, i wonder if i can bloom so beautifully that you don't cross over to another flower.
The butterfly is a frugal fellow His dancing wings float ever aloft He is always well mannered and mellow Yet deemed queer because he's modest and soft
He passes his time in contemplation Placates with colourful diplomacy Works hard and avoids procrastination He's artful and filled with tenacity
Not a slurp when, his ambrosia, he sips His etiquette shows: it is well entrenched For outings and ins he'll sure catch that tip The rarest charm to behold but not clenched
Luck sees you such a butterfly at play He's a frugal fellow and so he'll stay.
the sun rose high in the sky and burned the land beneath it and i watched a thousand ants crawling on a butterfly's dying figure claiming its wings as it frantically *****, erratic desperate but ultimately devoured.
