|
. . Of dust and parts of relinquished time, I see a friendless butterfly, Trembling through the film of grime, It flutters on without a fret, Out of my touchings grasp. I furtive behind my quaker And gentally clasp My fingers around it Flavoring the titillating Feeling of it's branches Against my finger tips. Then I comprehend for a moment that I too am a butterly on this Path for relinquished time. |
