Little butterfly
I have followed you.
Yours is an act of generosity
mistaken for an act of pride.
Deeper into entwined branches
I am elated while scratched.

Little butterfly
you are leading me.
Suspected of telling your own story
flight reaching the height of anonimity.
Stumbling a meadow below
I am breathless and lost.

There's a net designed just for you
also a glass-fronted tomb. 
They'll give you pride of place 
in a magnificent museum
and tell your story as only they can.
I choose the hope you will not be caught
and happily return empty handed.

Falling leaves besiege the earth
your haphazard career too nears it's goal.
I translate as far as I can
but, passing friend, you move out of sight.
The fate to remember and re-imagine
is a lowly cloth, but I'll wear it all my days.