If I were a butterfly
I would die by end of summer
With my questions taken somewhere
To be given a reply
No time left for TV screens
Every word they tell is lie
What a self sufficient life!
What a pattern on my wings
Nothing to accumulate
But for people whom I truth and
Every day might be the last one
In your quickly flowing fate
But I’m not a butterfly
I just sit in front of window
Living through the fucken winter
Looking forward to July