I saw a butterfly and asked for its name.
Instead, this is the answer I got on that fateful day:
“I was thrown to the Wolves in 1988,
In an immaculate forest where the Jaguar Reigns.
But I was not a wolf, such as they were.
No.
I was covered in slime and lacked the fur.
Slithered on the ground, for I had no limbs;
Only a ridged-belly on which I laid bare.
I was a worm, a larvae: putrid affair;
A child in awe and deathly afraid.
But they raised me as their own, in the midst of their hunt;
Smelling blood and guts of wars for survival,
Not want.
Meanwhile, slowly, My Metamorphosis set in;
Took shape. Crooned.
And I cocooned.
Now,
At the cusp of Saturn’s Return,
I see my old skin slowly burn;
Itself, Consume;
My back, particularly,
Shed and fume;
Skin tears,
As wings protrude,
Covered in Blood:
Naked and Crude.
Cured.
Yes!
I’m now in Full Bloom!
Perfect Circle and cycle returned!
Wings of Fire – Stellar and Blue!
Predator and Prey,
In the Butterfly’s way,
Lend armour and clay,
So that from the rotten carcass
Of an existence mundane,
Universes
I make,
I shape,
Craft
And
Create.”
Fernando, unfiltered 