Butterflies,
butterflies,
soft wings that touch our eyes,
were opening and closing,
say now were supposing,
they haven't got their colours on,
they haven't finished what they had begun,
They float on by an evening sun.

In lazy hazy fields they played and you could see,
they heavily,
heavenly circled every tree.

I caught those butterflies,
the soft wings that touched ours eyes,
no use in telling us now their screaming,
they hit the walls as you touched the ceiling.

They no longer made that fluttering sound,
their bodies lay silent to the ground.

No use in flying or crying.

No use in leaving now their bleeding.

Their silence can be very deceiving.