There is a pothole on our path’ concerned, I said to my friend.
Well, close it then with some dirt’, he replied with a smile.
As we proceeded enthusiastically on our treacherous way
Through the pristine wilderness of the Yellowstone National Park.
Somewhere in a distant place, not near our camping site
But not very far from the park’s location either,
We could hear the excavators running madly through the thickets
Stomping heavily on the dusty ground as if to express their rage
Before swallowing the bushes raw with the earth, an unusual feast
Their gaping jaws thrown open almost immediately after every bite
Revealing their ghastly metal teeth indicating an insatiable hunger,
As the people’s government, the guardian of our glorious land
Has given its permission to dig mines of prosperity on the migrating path
Of the elegant butterflies, the monarch of their kind.
As we slept inside our protective tent, side by side in comfort
With an argument about our future ceasing just minutes before,
As the wind swirled and roared throughout the freezing night,
A weird dream looking so real appeared in my restless mind.
There is a fluorite mine on our path’, one butterfly said, receiving
An insight into the three stages of time as a response from another.
Well they have become so common all around this place these days,
As we once used to be in the towering mountains standing majestically,
Sending down innumerous veins of wild streams with steady flow
Through the green body of the lush forest, ever young and vibrant;
And will be in near future in every single museum in this great country
Dedicated to the natural world, disintegrating slowly, fading with time,
With people though few, who would still have the artistic mind
And the much needed patience to experience and appreciate
The beauty of life, drawn in complex, artful sketches and
Painted with brilliant colors on our wings, fragile yet magnificent.