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    TO THE DEAD BUTTERFLY

Your joy, in flight,
your restlessness, in air;
your life, of sun, of air, of flight.

How small your death
beneath the light of living fire!
How serene the grace of your wings
now held for ever open in this book!

And in you, so soft, in your hushea dying,
in your sleep without dreams,
what magic lost into air,
how much despairing thought!

Eugenio Florit
Translation by Richard O'Connell


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