The caterpillar pupates into chained wings.
In the broad, clear sunlight, the collector comes,
And the collector wouldn’t come
If the butterfly had no wings.
The collector is a wing-less being
Lusting to capture those
Who have wings in spite of him.
I am walking in the silken path
Where I walk alone, alone,
On the path wide enough
For a thousand men.
And then, across the path,
I see a silhouette approach
The man comes closer, edging, slowly.
His shadow grows clearer, more concise.
The clearer he becomes –
His face is now sun-kissed –
The more I hate him.
Hate his clarity,
Curse his existence,
See it as superfluous:
I wish him dead.
He is almost beside me now
I toy with the idea of happy murder
He smiles from a near distance
And all of a sudden:
The path was no longer mine.
The path wide enough for a thousand men
Was not wide enough for the both of us.