You.
So gentle, this thing,
Like the breath of a butterfly dreaming,
(Do butterflies breathe? Dream?)
As though it isn’t really there,
And all the more so felt for it.
So gentle, this thing,
My hands do not know what they’re holding,
Only that if I grasp even the slightest,
It will go away.
It makes me have shields made of flowers.
Like the breath of a butterfly dreaming,
(Do butterflies breathe? Dream?)
As though it isn’t really there,
And all the more so felt for it.
So gentle, this thing,
My hands do not know what they’re holding,
Only that if I grasp even the slightest,
It will go away.
It makes me have shields made of flowers.
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