A single bloom within a field;
A caterpillar feeding.
It, heedless to the flower’s pleading,
Eats away its only shield.
A butterfly the worm becomes,
Of beauty equal to the flower;
But the tattered bloom succumbs
And no more offers sheltered bower.
But the butterfly can fly,
And lost within its transformation,
Soars, without a backward eye,
And leaves behind the devastation.
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