Butterfly
The butterfly counts months not memories,
Of the springs and autumn that passed away.
Emancipation from all mortal bonds,
Memories afflicted only with inscrutable fond.
Draped with lamentation of the gone days,
Repairing to the valley of desolation,
Where the pieces of those leaf-like memories,
Still hold on to the transitory trees.
A spectacular array of,
The days that we had rued,
And the inclinations of beings that were true.
Without the consciences of right,
Or wrong; which makes one love or
Hate limitless.
But inevitably memories were made,
Through some did perish away,
But the butterfly counts months not memories.
Especially the ones that made our bond.
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