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 Poet 11586

Metamorphosis

By aldo kraas, www.PoetryPoem.com/poet11586    Unlock all Features - Upgrade to Poetry Prime

A butterfly stumbles and says to her mum, "I don't want a life without you."
Her mother looks at her, with a calm expression.
As the destiny of  is anchored perfectly, to the soul of the little butterfly.
No matter if she finds the colors of her mother's wings the brightest, she has a duty of her own.
Who else will then colour this world of black and white?
Her purpose is alive.
Alive with all the universe's vibrance.
And so, her mother whispers into her ear,
"Dear child, know that you are not mine, you belong to life. You belong to the beauty of continuity of purpose. So rise! Clutch the dawn and with it, tear your fears into bits and pieces. Just tear your fears into bits and pieces."
Little drops pour out from the eyes of the child butterfly. She looks ahead.
Yet a thought blooms.
"This struggle is mine. Nobody's but mine, and I will, turn it into the living poetry of success."
With this, she spreads her flamboyant young wings and weakly yet musically, they start fluttering.
The final sound of transformation.
And in no time, she is flying with the gentle friendly breezes.
Her mother looks at her, and with a teardrop falling on the ground.
She turns around, and starts flying,
For her part of her child's life was over.
The child butterfly looks at her flying away.
An internal unheard yet intense scream arises within her, but the whispers of thewind wrap her body tightly now.
She is now aligned with her purpose.
Her sweet divine purpose of colouring this world.
And greatness, is like a huge tree.
It requires freedom.
Liberation.
Individuality.
To spread its grace.
And for these she left her mother, her cocoon, her home, her comfort,
to become one of the most magical creations of God.
The spots on her wings are the beads of sweat from God's forehead.
Such is the beauty of her wings, the ultimate canvas on which God's own cosmic ink is smeared.
Dear butterfly, may I too become like you.
May I too colour this world, with not splendid wings perhaps, but scarred hands embellished with sweat and blood, poured straight from the fountain of karma.








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