Right before the banks of the black ugly river
exists a forest of weed pink flowers that shiver
as the railroad locos glide past the bunch
and the front end engine throws in the punch.
Civilized men ride in those boxes
that travel through stations and million paradoxes.
A trail of steel lines guide them to stand
right aside each men’s greedy dreams at hand.
Men of certain nature glance out of the box
and make up things that are weird as their socks.
Songs run through all of their mind
had the flowers dancing as they left them behind.
To know of this routine morning and night
Butterflies hover with their beauty and might.
Some disheartened men only love them as far
as they stay away like a glistening star.
Let the flowers stay cozy and safe by the side.
Let the hovering butterflies seek refuge and hide.
The men in the boxes have envied the lives
and abnegated the choice of being there, alive.