André Del Rey’s Reviews > ...I Never Saw Another Butterfly... > Status Update

And call the swallow, bring her back to me.
Fly somewhere back to her and ask her, soft and low, If she thinks of me sometimes with love,
If she is well and ask her, too, before you go
If I am still her dearest, precious dove.

And the springs,
Under the weight of excitement, forgot to squeak. Half a century it is since anyone as much as touched
this piano.

Death, after all, claims everyone,
You find it everywhere. It catches up with even those Who wear their noses in the air.
The whole, wide world is ruled
With a certain justice, so
That helps perhaps to sweeten
The poor man’s pain and woe.