a butterfly flying gently through the air,
a butterfly gently beating its wings,
the power, the power seemingly from nowhere,
nowhere at all.
Oh, the wonders of the butterfly,
a delicate being,
a beautiful being,
so, seemingly simple, so seemingly simple in its form.
The butterly so far, so far from the norm, the normal in its majesty,
but elegantly so magical in its all its stages of life,
from birth to death,
a wondrous and a glorious sight across the sky,
a delicate and glorious sight, so magical in the eye,
the butterfly, whose travels so delight us mere mortals in our overcomplicated human form, and whose simplicity stirs our emotions, a wonder that so delights our hearts and our minds, no matter the time of day,
and no matter how weary and worn are our minds,
how wonderfully the butterfly does gloriously delight us in all its beautiful colours, no matter the hours or the storms, the storms in the minds of humanity, the storms in the minds of each human being, the storms of each human form.