they called you
all these pretty things.
How small and kind
you were,
you never
made them cry.
And like a little butterfly
you danced around the room,
laughing that little laugh
so no-one would be sad.
They called you
a ray of light,
a moonbeam
made by gods,
pretty girl,
an angel,
who would never cry.
But time went by
and the people fast forgot
about that ray of light
who once made them smile.
They stopped hearing
that little laugh
and with time
they start to cry,
for they had lost the joy
of the little butterfly.
And there you were,
all alone,
roaming those rooms
now filled whole with gloom.
The kind, angelic girl
is now laughing sad.
The little moonbeam,
making of the gods,
now isn’t looking up;
all she does is cry.
But don’t you worry,
little butterfly,
moonbeam,
ray of light:
you are one of a kind.
And one day,
little butterfly,
you will no more cry,
but you will learn to fly.
You will fly
far away from here
to a place
behind the sky
where you will learn
again how to smile.
So rejoice,
little butterfly,
for now is time to fly.
