The other pilgrims
Perhaps they know
what we don’t: more —
in their countless
clouds — numerous,
doubtless are, than
the throng: when man
thithers likewise
— yea, butterflies —
Like Milky Way
in garb so gay
pulse, oscillate
in suspensed state;
fluid flow, waters
o’er land’s contours,
a radiant cloud;
o’ershadows crowd,
that motley crew
in scarves moth-chew’d
— not all hence brought
by noble thoughts:
none for faith dies
— like butterflies —
From far away
come, see — to pay,
each year, homage:
their pilgrimage
to Lord Saman,
as lored among
the country folk —
their streams like spokes
pouring to meet
at this, the seat
of all beliefs:
of shrines the chief —
or perhaps bound
for breeding ground
where first sun’s kiss
warmed chrysalis:
just as salmon
from seas return
offspring to send
downstream — spent, end
all earthly strife
— to dash out life —
their beating belts
’gainst rock face pelt:
whilst our faith but
dash coconuts
— and that, too, made
with wish for aid —
For butterflies
no compromise
in tribute grim —
Wonder, pilgrim.
