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Monarch Butterflies
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Florence Welch
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I am afraid of things being written down Confined to the page so permanent There is an impermanence to song It is fleeting and of the moment Words grow wings Flying and out of the mouths of singers and crowds But never caught fully Never pinned down Celebrated for their imperfections Because they are a disappearing creation They live entirely in the moment A vibration, an exchange of enеrgy And that way things can be misheard... Reintеrpreted, you don't have to be seen You can be so loud so visible and yet Totally hidden By a flock of notes fluttering, already dying, Disguising the somewhat ordinary if anxious writer With their shimmering glory and colour My grandfather said I am Like the monarch butterfly That got lost I flew from North America In the eye of my mother... Drawn to the churches, frescos And old books of Europe The new world too new Back to grey stone and skies Ancient scrolls, death and dust Old death, not this fresh death There in your hand Glowing and Relentless
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