The Butterfly Effect


As autumn walks on its final limb,
the crisp, cold air of winter waits for
the milking of daybreak.
The arising sun withers leaves of time
and death lingers closely.
The illusion of the continuous caterpillar
is like the great sin of Abel, whose pious thoughts
tender us at every new funeral.
The vacant nest and silent songs are like sorrow full of sap
plucked for its golden dew
that looks evergreen in the foliage of pride.
At high rose the old drools and languish
the melody of nature's symphony.
The leaves etch on the edge of the wind before
leaving an adorned burdened spray--
sprung from the eternity of hell.
Just as the caterpillar goes into the cocoon,
the tree mocks death and blossoms no more.
Until spring tickles the skin beneath the crust of the earth
and paints a rain cloud full of colors.
The caterpillar is reborn, wings spread, morning sunshine
but unlike the tree, the butterfly soon dies
the tree is reborn repeatedly, moldering,
shedding its corpse infinitely.
Nothing can happen more beautiful than the cycle of death.

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