The Hymn of Freedom
The Hymn of Freedom
The butterfly could not formulate
glass
on which it battered its flimsy wings
freedom lay beyond the pane
still cruelly beckoning
with light and colour
the scent of flowers and open fields
How like a god I was
as I sat and watched
the implacable glass
tear its wings apart
and I heard a choir of voices singing to me
I sat and let the butterfly die
baked by the heat
and its struggle to be free
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