EN
As I was walking home from work,
I saw a butterfly.
It was sitting on a low wall in front of the park,
it had no wings,
and tears were streaming down its face.
I took pity on it,
and lent it my coat.
A worn coat,—
an elegant coat,—
a coat that was soaked through with sweat.
Perhaps, in the early morning,
it sat on a petal,
drinking sweet nectar,
who knows.
Fate can be divined from petals,
as is the custom.
And there, instead of a petal,
you pluck a wing.
Perhaps, however, he merely
hung his wings on a coat rack overnight,
just as one hangs up a coat.
I should have told him
where to find a flower,—
a beautiful flower,—
a blooming flower.—
I thought he was looking for wings,
yet he was weeping
over my sweat-soaked coat.
Over a coat that wandered the world.
Over an empty coat.
That butterfly did not fly this way in vain.
It flew so that we might understand,
so that we might know,
so that we might love.
