Butterfly

I enjoy the sight of a twittering butterfly.
I can never hold it in my hands
and have to let it go flower to flower.

The color of the wings is inviting
to lay a trap and just feel them
as the texture of a great painting.

After some time the wings turn pale
losing the color to my fingers.
It stops moving. I think it is
cozily asleep in the warmth of my hand.

I release it but there is no movement yet
So, I try to blow air
like artificial breathing
to get the wings into motion.

It refuses to wake up , like
a stubborn child on Monday morning.
I try in vain again.

Someone comes up to me and says
It could have been dead.
I reject it as a stupid idea
for creatures so beautiful to die so silently.
That too losing their beauty to the hands of ugliness.

I take it home and place it in a big book
that none would dare to open.
I think it is still there smearing
it's color to the story.