Is there any hope for a butterfly,
Away from excited, hormone-induced teenagers raising a bonfire?
Or from a hypocritical, grey praying mantis?
Or from a sweetish, colorful kid who wants to show and tell?
Is there any hope for the butterfly,
Above crowded streets,
Between the dusty branches of weary trees
Along the sidewalks?
Before the eyes of indifferent men in ragged clothes??
She had fallen in love with the flickering flames,
The ecstasy and heat,
She loved how Love killed,
How she would dance before she falls in the jaws of her predator..
Is there any hope for the butterfly
But to flap her wings
towards the destiny she has chosen?