It's getting fall and the petals get limp.
The nectar is gone,
but the smell still strong.
The rose is dying that the butterfly swarmed.
It was beautiful and sweet in summertime,
Only its stings were hurting every time.
She is dying for this season so fine,
He rested so often to find a sweet life,
Just a wing got broken at a sting once at a strive.
The rose may blow in the next year again,
But the butterfly will not remain until then.
April 1, 2006, the ButterflyLast modified: Sat Apr 1 15:23 EST 2006