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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!