Butterflies

Laying upon the floor,

Really don't want to be here anymore,

Staring with my eyes,

Upon those butterflies,

Sitting upon my arm,

Keeping me from harm.

The butterflies stay,

After you all go away,

They whisper to me all things,

That will come in the springs,

When hope will dawn,

And I will become very strong.

But just right now,

I have a hard field to plough,

And I must not stop,

So that I might get that crop,

And move on my way,

Out of the days of gray.

When the spring comes,

I'll escape the pain that numbs,

And winter's embarrassment,

As well as it's discouragement, 

And I will stand once more,

Stronger than before.