When God created woman,
He had a butterfly in mind.
Into its shade this Earth keeps turning,
always the same pale side of the Moon—
its faithful amulet,
its charm of fortune,
swaying all of us
together with the oceans,
under the tips of waning rays,
laying across the ponds
their dancing paths for rising souls—
while the Moon itself is dust,
dust of vanished, dried-out seas.
Yet even the smallest butterflies
still paint the air with light—
each hue a prayer of those wings.
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