The butterflies inside me

The butterflies aren't blooming inside me

They are the wounds inside me!

Since they've turned into pine cones

They come to cover up my pains

In their short lives, they touch mine

Flying to refresh my soul

They work their way into my heart as if traveling within

Flapping their wings to fly in another dimension

They bring forth my freedom and creativity

As symbols of rebirth, they prevent me from staying dead

Having gone through those paths, they give me strength

Now I feel it: they're blooming inside me, in the value of the present!