a butterfly, fluttering away its final moments.
I watch, feeling its life-force slip away,
unable to help or console.
I am the same as it in my mortality;
the life-force will leave me, too.
But I am also different,
in that I can know and understand,
It suffers; I suffer;
who suffers more: it or I?
The butterfly cannot recall its past,
and knows nothing of the processes
which rule its life,
so just accepts, unquestioningly,
whatever happens to it.
I do not.
I think, I feel, I wonder why,
and want to know,
and this increases suffering,
yet necessarily, so that,
in facing it, it may be overcome.