A green little worm,
The size of a pea.
Defying the norm,
Of winged big beauty.
A cater-pillar,
They call him daft.
A wingless weight,
Unskilled in each craft.
The butterflies could fly,
Were loved, could love.
But caterpillar, shy
Couldn’t soar skies above.
For decades, he’d mourn.
In failure, he’d weep.
Till one fateful morn,
He fell in deep sleep.
Alas! He awoke,
In a form not his own.
A white feather cloak
Surrounded each bone.
He thrashed for escape,
But each thread, too strong
Choked him toe to nape.
…He’d done nothing wrong…
He bore till he broke,
He fought till he lost,
His hope’s last stroke.
He gave up at last.
But a morning will rise
When he’ll open his eyes,
And finally realizeHe had it in him
All along.
All this while he had thought
He was wrong.
When really,
His peak was to come.
One day,
A butterfly, he’d become.
-Joyta Singh
5C