Butterflies fly to her and don’t know
their chromatic wings fascinate her,
they just fly, flooding her, like Spring,
irresistible. With the speed of wind
they rush over, arresting her attention
and her love, they beat her eyelids, the chambers
of her heart, they almost see her eyes,
her feelings, but they don’t know her hands
could catch and crush their flying spirits.
They don’t know her obsession
could pin them into glorious specimens.
They just fly, recklessly fly, towards
her infatuated eyes, like flying to a funeral.
They don’t have return tickets, one-way flight
like gamblers, death squads. They drop tear gas,
but she doesn’t blink, as hardheaded as them,
resisting their blind rush, the temptation. She sees
beneath the beautiful wings the gross
metamorphosis when they break the pupa, and sees
the secret of how they fly, her arms are stretched out,
ready— she will, with even more colors and knowing
she might end up on a pin, fly back to them.
(Translated by Ming Di and Tony Barnstone)