Gedicht
Medbh McGuckian
The Butterfly Farm
The Butterfly Farm
The Butterfly Farm
The film of a butterfly ensures that it is dead:Its silence like the green cocoon of the car-wash,
Its passion for water to uncloud.
In the Japanese tea house they believe
In making the most of the bright nights:
That the front of a leaf is male, the back female.
There are grass stains on their white stockings;
In artificial sun even the sound are disposable;
The mosaic of their wings is spun from blood.
Cyanide in the killing jar relaxes the Indian moon moth,
The pearl-bordered beauty, the clouded yellow,
The painted lady, the silver-washed blue.
© 1982, Medbh McGuckian
From: The Flower Master
Publisher: Gallery Press, Oldcastle, Co. Meath
From: The Flower Master
Publisher: Gallery Press, Oldcastle, Co. Meath
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The Butterfly Farm
The film of a butterfly ensures that it is dead:Its silence like the green cocoon of the car-wash,
Its passion for water to uncloud.
In the Japanese tea house they believe
In making the most of the bright nights:
That the front of a leaf is male, the back female.
There are grass stains on their white stockings;
In artificial sun even the sound are disposable;
The mosaic of their wings is spun from blood.
Cyanide in the killing jar relaxes the Indian moon moth,
The pearl-bordered beauty, the clouded yellow,
The painted lady, the silver-washed blue.
From: The Flower Master
The Butterfly Farm
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