the butterflies - V

Wet, warm blue rain, she
flies until her wings
                          grow dry
A fresh night, blooming, 
                   ending by the hour,
hangs mounted in air,
                            still, lifeless
Her soul flutters with exuberance,
this time without his spirit of 
                             vivacity

The night, serene, is lively
                             once again
He greets her, the urge, he 
                             couldn't resist
Blood-flow, dazzle, covet
                             for him, yet
the knowledge of future revelations, and
of the present,
                     causes her to fly the fields of time

Waiting