Flies

Flies love figs, oaks, elms, and willows; we know. They play hide-and-seek with leaves tinged with snow. In their purblind fondness, our hearts get sparked? Do they flee from us because we're crook-backed? Around us, wingers of every kind fly. We often love their melancholic cry. Isn't each fly as fine as a butterfly? Shouldn't each be the master of the sky? The colours and vibes of flies are versatile. Doesn't their existence, yet, appear futile? Why should frail flies be weighed down by lures? Why should life move around ecliptic blurs?