The little girl, though very ill, Went out one
To wander, with faltering footsteps, The nearby hill.
She brought back mountain flowers In which she hidA chrysalis and, unknowing, set it Close beside her bed.
A few days later, at the moment She lay dying,
We all gathered round, our eyes Red with crying,
And at the instant she departed The whisper of
Was heard, and through the window, Taking flight,
Into the waiting garden, wafted A golden butterfly.
Hurriedly,
I searched for the insect’s Now empty prison,
Then turned my gaze to the dead child’s Pallid brow.
If the winged butterfly,
I thought, leaves Its confining
To find light and space and the immensity Of golden fields,
What shall the newly freed soul find when It bursts its shell?
