Holding on to that walking stick...
I see a butterfly, a memory of mine,
Struggling it's way toward ...
Weak, Hollow .. I try hard to help,
I trip, I fall.. I fall the final fall ...
While it rests on my frail shoulder,
I hear it sing, a lullaby of my past ...
With highs and lows, like the notes,
It calls on me, to take me away at last ...
I swim away, into the emptiness,
With a promise never to return...
--
Regards
Hamza
