He hurried down the hill, the playful butterfly,
Thirsting for his queen, the morning rose;
She turned her face, shunned the fickle lover,
The rose;
Fluttered the butterfly closer,
Tenderly to woo the rose,
Beg for mercy,
To caress once more her silken blossom,
Languorously to cradle in her folds;
Aloof she stood in the rising sun, the rose;
In the vanity of her solitude,
Frigid, in the pervasive warmth that arose,
Naked, deceived and betrayed,
Indignant by the deep humiliation,
The Queen of flowers, the rose!
Her magnificent crimson petals, she had shed,
Her strong, splendid green leaves had fallen,
Her sharp, shielding thorns were gone,
Lost in the wilderness her alluring perfume;
One time the butterfly stroke her,
Forever he touched her soul!
Anita Bacha
http://poetryofanitabacha.com/
