A ruined dungeon beneath the heavens, blinding and blue;
Hordes of silver, glittering butterflies flew;
Whiter than the brightest lily, at the centre it stood;
The glowing tree of motherhood.
Butterflies of pearls birthed from the leaves and twigs;
Shimmering roots; branches and figs;
Trunks of moonlight curling and twisting;
Like pale threads of silk, the fronds rippling.
The mausoleum of arches, old and doomed;
Yet a crib of creation, shadow of blazing life loomed;
The winged creatures rose ever higher;
Bewitching the eggshell loam, the desolate tomb is set on fire.
Lovelier than the prettiest rose, at the centre it stood;
The impassioned tree of womanhood.