Somewhere deep inside of me,                                                            
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there's an insect squirming                                                        ­              
                                                  ­                                                            
waiting for an opportunity                                                      ­                            
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or a perfect morning                                                          ­                              
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It laid dormant for so long,                                                            ­              
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I thought it was dead                                                             ­                         
                                       ­                                                                 ­              
but I was dead wrong,                                                           ­                         
                                                                ­                                                          
it chose to be hidden instead                                                          ­                
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I would get a glimpse of it                                                               ­                                                                 ­                              
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Somedays, I would cover it up                                                               ­   
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I tried to forget about it                                                               ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                            
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but it was never enough                                                           ­                   
                                                                ­                                                  
One day it just emerged,                                                         ­       
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quite by mistake                                                          ­                                                                                                                      ­                                               
right on the verge of its big break                                                    
                                                                ­                                                     
 It struggled inside of me,                                                              ­            
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I could feel it writhe                                                           ­                           
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It wanted to be free,                                                            ­                          
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I could sense it try                                                              ­                                
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What could this insect be?                                                              ­                
                                                                ­                                                      
It was a butterfly

Pancakes are fluffy, soft,
Her cuteness reaches the Sky,
Amongst blooming flowers
A beautiful butterfly.

Waffles are firm, Krispy,
And yet tender is his care,
Love can make a castle
And he is a building square!

Waffles and Pancakes:
Soft and Firm. Fluffy against Crispy?
Yet somehow mixing them isn't risky!
They journey together, hand in hand,
Their love unites the land!

I am your Waffle,
You are my Pancake,
And no matter what,
Our love won't ever shake!

The nature pays its debt to mother earth,
furnishing the soils and skies,
with beauty on wings
and beauty on greens.
The stars and the moons,
lovers and poems,
reflecting it's metamorphosis
flashing at the earth.

And a caterpillar hatches out from pearls,
looking upon sensations of freedom,
holding between his teeth, a leaf green of life,
it nibbles on life,
brimming with juvenescence.
It once takes a leap seeing a brightly coloured wings flapping,
wishing flight.
And one pleasant night,
the night laid its eyes on it,
and it trembled,
building a soft cocoon to hide in.

Hunger gushes in and kicks its warm belly,
and it breaths in the air
tangled in emotions,
misery and anger,
disgust and fear,
strength and sweetness,
weakness and bitterness,
surprise and happiness.
It weaves a blanket out of it in leisure,
thin as air and strong as a storm
wrapping it around its wiggly self,
and breaking the cocoon.

The moon falls in love
with the oenomel creature,
and watches it take off to please eyes,
and imparting color.
Love slides and plays on its wings of hope
and it calls itself,
A Butterfly.

I store measured meanings
all definitions neatly arranged in drawers,
to calm the mind and heart.

I see with human eyes,  
carefully tracing the pulse of the planet.
In this apparent chaos, a strict order reigns.

In the cycles of the nightly day and daily night,
the same thoughts come to me like wistful friends,
longing to bridge micro and macro scales,
to merge into oneness.

Waiting in line for health,
I heard that time is relative.
What insightful words
shift meaning
in different contexts.

Trees, animals, human beings—
Each one perceives the flow of time
through a different lens…

If I were a butterfly
its three weeks would be my entire life.
How sad it is that
I cannot truly appreciate
a single second of a butterfly’s day.
Its rhythm moves beyond my awareness.

To people, Eternity is a never-ending story
of unrecognized fields of unknown space.
To ethereal, thoughtful giants
just a fleeting instant,
the blink of the universe
across the slender strait.

I can whisper or scream,
cry, laugh,
or remain silent for years,
but on a grander scale,
it will be nothing more than
a dainty breath of spring wind.

So please don’t be upset with me
that I can’t feel the same as you do now.
To you,
this is the endless painful abyss.
To me,
it’s just a passing memory
of deep night vanishing
into a new dawn of becoming.

My mother is a spider.
Carefully crafted webs fill my childhood home.
With great care, she weaves day and night,
trapping her family inside.
We struggle but only doom ourselves further.
I am a fly,
buzzing as I wrap myself in her silken strands.
My sister is a butterfly,
flapping her wings as the webbing pulls off her beautiful scales.
My brothers are bees
who once sought bright flowers and hives of others like them.
My father is a moth,
guided to the web’s shimmering light.
Now, we all lie still, drained of life,
slowly being consumed by the weaver.

Not the butterfly—
never the butterfly.

Only the delirium.
The fever of pursuit.
Wind-lashed laughter,
sun slitting gold across our skin,
hands slicing through hush,
through emerald ghosts.

Wings—silk, smoke,
breath—a ghost kiss,
vanishing.

We ran.
We ran.
Color hemorrhaged between our hands.
The sky swallowed it whole,
left nothing but,
the aftertaste of wanting.

Was it ever the capture?
Or the almost,
the ache of flight just out of reach—
like trying to pocket a mirage,
like teaching the wind to stay.

Years fold.
Silence swallows.
Love like wings,
dreams like dust,
fingers still cupped around air,
as if emptiness could be held.

We chase.
We lose.
We call it living.

Butterfly and Rose
Out of his cocoon,
Tiptoed a butterfly.
Young and naive,
He soared through the sky.

Up and down
And through the canopies
He flew towards
The most beautiful sight.

Caught up in the charms
Of Rose’s soft petals,
He rushed to touch her,
Unaware of her thorns.

But alas,
There wasn’t a way
That she could tell him
About her deadly thorns.

She watched as he fell
Into the loams,
The ephemeral love in his arms,
Inevitably to wither away.

In the once lush Forest, flowers now wither,
All thanks to the eternal winter.
Came without warning, in a moment’s notice;
It killed even the strongest lotus.

The trees stand alone, lonely and pale,
Yet they remain hopeful that spring will prevail.
They believe in what there is to come;
Their sorrow will melt under tomorrow’s Sun.

In the Forest of the Heart, seasons are strange;
None can predict when, how they will change.
Winter came fast, and so quickly it may leave,
Allowing the shrubs to spread their leaves.

The quiet flap of a butterfly’s wings
Could be the reason for the coming of spring.
Trees will stand tall, the flowers will bud,
Fireflies will listen to frogs in the mud.

The rivers will flow, the fish will once more swim.
A serene scene, just when will it come…?
The trees can dream, the fireflies have to wait,
The frogs can sleep, the shrubs can slumber…

Oh, a butterfly!