The Butterfly
We are moved by the poems of a master writer,
And try to write poetry ourselves.
Yet it does not come easily.
Swearing friendship with the soul of the dead,
In the end, we fail to sever ties.
You have profaned the sacred poem,
You have defiled yourself.
Do you not know?
In the end, you are merely a stagnant being rotting together
In the dead water of a well.
To have tried to birth a poem from that very place?
Even the day-fly born there
Perishes together within an unseen furnace.
Only by finally breaking ties with the eternal friend
Can we see the truth of you and me.
"Rather than a bee going wild over the scent of honey,
Become a butterfly!"
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