Not broken and not battered,
This butterfly will not fly
Again this side of dark death.
The faintest rippling passes
Along these wee, fragile wings,
A shudder in the morning.
A quick breeze brings this pilgrim
To the edge of the steep steps—
It perches for the last time,
A last volitious action,
A sigh at the suddenness
Of sublime life, now blasted.
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