(While walking through the domed enclosure of the Bannerghatta Butterfly Park, I marvelled at the delicate beauty of the winged beings around me. The air was redolent, the flowers swayed gently, and butterflies painted fleeting strokes of colour in the sunlight. Yet, amid this orchestrated paradise, a thought unsettled me—what if I were one of them?
Would I delight in the security of this sanctuary, shielded from storms and predators? Or would I yearn for the open skies, the untamed winds, the boundless liberty of an uncertain world? Would my wings, though vibrant, feel weightless or weary?
The turmoil swirls within me, seeking utterance of a butterfly’s unspoken longing.)
I was born to the whispering breeze,
To chase the sun through rustling trees,
To kiss the blooms with fleeting grace,
To vanish without a backward trace.
The sky was mine, vast and free,
A painted realm of infinity.
No walls, no hands to fix my flight,
Only the call of golden light.
But here, beneath this glassy dome,
Where painted petals make their home,
My wings still dance, my colours gleam,
Yet all is but a captive dream.
The air is sweet, the flowers bright,
The world is warm, bathed in light—
Yet where’s the thrill of winds untamed,
The reckless joy of storms unnamed?
No weary miles, no sky-bound quest,
No carefree flight, no daring rest.
I sip, I glide, I weave, I turn,
Yet deep within, my spirit burns.
O guardian hands, kind and wise,
Who built for me these gilded skies—
Know this: a butterfly in bloom,
Still longs to break its crystal tomb.
For freedom is the wild embrace,
Of life, of loss, of endless chase.
And wings, though frail, were meant to roam—
Not linger in a glass-built home.
scribo ad LX 