How he misses the butterfly
Upon delicate and, beautiful wings
Perhaps best, a foolish beetle
No longer dreams, of such nice things

 

Once he soared, once he flew
One hot summer, in days gone past
Only back then, he never knew
It would be his last

 

Every now and then
He lets out a plaintive cry
Listens carefully, upon the breeze
Yet hears no reply

 

Finally, he wipes his eyes
Remembers how each tear fallen, stung
Alone again, gets back to work
Rolling balls of dung