Of butterflies

Since spring,

Tiny sparrows cross my trail

Every day.

Busy and noisy

Jumping to an unheared song,

Gracefully dancing

In a violet killing spree.

All butterflies fear death.

So they don’t cross

    my path any more.

A word

If ever,

The saddest day is the cherry tree

losing it’s petals.

Pink tears wash the trails

In perfumes of timeless remorse.

And couples whisper under them,

“How wonderful !  Romantic!”

Not knowing they pass

Under the hand of death

Made metaphor to humans,

…

In the darkest hour

Of spring.