ESTACAO RELOGIOS


A borboleta on the station clock,
A visitor from nearby fields; each wing
Of satin psychedelic-dyed, a cloak
Adorning rich that most ordinary thing.

And walking down the platform with my book,
I wondered at the difference which it wrought;
The dreary, tickless clock, the awning's lack
Of paint, and here, a creature painted bright.

Yet now, both butterfly and clock have gone;
The first to dust, the second-who knows where?
But smiling inwardly, I think of one
Who holds the image of that clock so dear.

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