A BUTTERFLY
- Feb 13
- 1 min read
By Gergo Sastyin
treetops soar as high as the clouds.
mud and rocks weigh down the shoes.
a butterfly crosses in front.
the lake’s pellucid and invigorating—
heavy drops of proleptic shadow
disturb a reflection otherwise so pure,
so perfect: now caught in a maelstrom
of amniotic fluid, colostrum, and blood.
distant birds flutter—it must be real,
otherwise a numinous sigh would accompany
this scenery: god’s approved or doesn’t
care. twin-tears follow the first effusion.
flowers gaze up, then look away.
the air feels light, sick, and yet
somewhat cosmically microscopic.
sunshine bursts through the flora: blinds
the universe, mutes the febrile rhythm
that lingers in the penumbra.
the soil begins to move slowly: worms
appear, thirsty for survival and imminent
death. gore appeases the ancient earth,
lust for the afterlife colors all liquid
red. innocence understands jesus; guilt
turns him into bread.
penultimate rays of today reveal the
necessary apoptosis on a mountain of
bilaterian corpses—a butterfly’s wings
crumble within the liberating fingers
that mean well. a drunken draft carries
holy particles rife with rueful determinism.
everything shines and chimes (perhaps
forcefully) one last time: what a mortal hour
to experience before the promised unity of
distance and pulse, breath and bone!
the ceremony is complete: the knife falls
with a single ripple.
the old samsara persists. something is
amiss—unthinkable. she misread the rubric:
instead of newborns, two dead butterflies
were required to usher in the apocalypse.