to the dead butterfly

Your jubilation, in flight;
your restlessness, in the air;
your life, in the sunshine, in the air, in flight.

How tiny your death,
under the light of living fire.
How serene the grace of your wings,
now [pressed] open forever in the book.

And in you, so gentle, in your silent death,
in your dreamless dream,
how many illusions lost in the air,
how many despairing thoughts.

Eugenio Florit

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