She is a small, white butterfly.
With beautiful, delicate wings.
Comes fluttering from the sky.
Source of beauty for good beings.
Little wings that can do no harm.
Resting in the kitchen to warm.
He is the very tall, old man.
Messy hair that hadn’t been combed.
Staring at the cold stove undone.
They’re worried for smile he doesn’t.
Bent shoulders that lost every hope.
The grieving father who can’t cope.
She was a petite, fair beauty.
Cherry-colored lips and brown eyes.
She liked recipes and cooking.
They loved her because she inspired.
Little hands that could do no harm.
Cooking in the kitchen to warm.
He thought she won’t leave the kitchen.
He thought she won’t abandon them.
As the old man bends to cry,
She is the small, white butterfly.
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