When the butterfly arrived The rose had withered her last petal The throat of the garden was dry Full of thorns and weeds Grass was lifeless straw Longing for a scorching death The last drops of a stream Were being sucked savagely By the furrows of the earth???s thirsty throat Full was the world Of the smell of wilderness and loneliness The arrogant butterfly Opened his mouth with a sigh Puzzled, whispered to himself How many tears would this garden need to revive And once more, just once more, The rose???s mouth could blossom and thrive? Then the butterfly thought of those old days When the rose was his true lover When the breeze would become his swing The garden the orchestra of his dance And thousands of green buds Would kneel to his fingers at once Then the butterfly became arrogant Flew overseas, and got lost He was drunk with the smell of distant flowers And ignored the red rose And now the loser butterfly Poor, pale, lonely, depressed, Where can he find a stream of tears, To revive his red rose? At last he landed on a thorny branch It sucked his blood turning him into a red dry rose. If a passenger would see him afar. He would wonder: How come that a lonely red rose Is surviving in that wilderness Resisting the cruelty of all the thorns of the world?!