A Wounded Butterfly

From sky above the world I clearly see
As cloudy vessels passing quickly by
Over the mad and wild state of the sea
One lonely and wounded Butterfly.
It flies with the will and force of the wind
It blossoms by the warmest sun shines
The old stains furnishing its broken wing
Reminds of the good fun flying times.
Dear Butterfly those times art past here come
And rest yourself for thou art sick and tired
Of flying to places away from dome
Thy trip is not yet to its end arrived.
Dear Wind thy will is true and true must be
But let this being to once rest free.

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