Mornings when I'm in the gym on the 14th floor, this little white butterfly flies by, outside the window. It always flies off in the same direction; it first rises from floors beneath, shows itself to me, and then proceeds to head off to the opposite building.
Up and down, up and down it beats its wings. A tiny being in a metropolis, strung in between cold uncaring skyscrapers.
It can't be the same butterfly, could it?
Up and down, up and down it beats its wings. A tiny being in a metropolis, strung in between cold uncaring skyscrapers.
It can't be the same butterfly, could it?
No comments:
Post a Comment