Are the cocoons going to fall down straight? Provide a drizzle of butterflies and moths Fluttering around us With their colorful wings
Are we going to chase them then? In the crimson fields of our nightmares Trying to capture the beauty But plucking their wings instead-
Are they going to fall down? In the misery of death Or are they going to evaporate And shower upon us another time And get their wings plucked again Mercilessly.