Dead men and butterflies
never make a sound.
The flutter of a presence
o\'er a dead man\'s ground.
Buried in the darkness,
hidden \'neath the soil.
Succumbing to the quietness
is a dead man\'s toil.
In death in escaping
on a verse of flight.
A poesy of piety
meriting the quiet.
Into eternity,
in silence adorned.
The poetry of butterflies
where the dead men mourned.
Quietly o\'er the sorrows,
the evermore bound.
For dead men and butterflies
never make a sound.