Drunk in the morning glare
A yellow butterfly flits.
By the window in his chair
A sleepy old man sits.
The spring was once a treat—
Singing without a care
He’d walked down many a street
Dust flying o’er his hair.
Although the blossoming bough
And golden butterfly
Seem no older now
Than in the years gone by
The aroma and the colour
Are not so sweet or bright.
The light is colder, duller
The air makes lungs feel tight.
Beneath the blue-white sky
The spring as softly sings
As humming bees. The butterfly
Spreads its golden wings.