Words are like butterflies
They have short lives
They simply get around
and then quietly forgotten without a sound
Butterflies have colourful wings
They can spawn, but they can’t sing
They are like flowers in the wind
No history or future they can bring
Can a word be like a star?
Aging and burning over millennia
Words can be cut in stone
But even stone can get brittle and worn
There are some with not a word
And broken and forlorn is the bird
That knows this age is not its wings
Can the future bring in the sangue real kings?
montes-musings.blog 
too good bro
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