Thursday, 20 September 2012


The little butterfly suddenly ceased to fly,
It hit the ground and stayed as still as a stone.
But wait! To get back up, it started to try,
Thrashing and writhing, its strength nearly gone.

Painting the grass with the colour of its wings,
Butterfly, in vain, trying to get up and about.
Going round and round as if tied in strings,
Until it lost its fight, all out.

The legs were squirming, feeble, delicate,
Its abdomen curling in and out and in again.
Now, as cruel as ever, its wretched fate,
Brought it near an anthill, with its thrashings vain.

The ants swarmed over the helpless fly,
And began devouring it, whole and alive.
If given a voice it sure would cry,
For it was struggling its final strife.

They tore its wings, legs, plucked off,
And slowly gouged out its eyes.
In a few moments there was nothing left off,
Except a head, twitching, the ants forgot to dice.


  1. one of ur best poem
    i will give 4 out of 5 stars..:)

  2. Oh God! That was so sad..! But it was so beautiful too in a deeply cruel yet sad way.