A shaman is a magician
Who is also a musician
And sometimes a physician.
This one wore a ceremonial robe,
a curious shade of indigo.
"Hear me, children!
How many of you
are alive?" Cried the shaman
A few world weary souls nodded their ascent.
"Doubt, ye not
The wisdom of butterflies,
I have heard them speak."
"Sometimes they scream, especially the Red Admirals."
The shaman began to sing,
as he did so three pretty, plain, white butterflies
alighted on his head.
"Paint our wings and we will accompany you"
So he did.
They added beauty to his words.
Accentuating, adorning his sacred song.
It didn't last long.
For the shaman died.
And the butterflies, in their grief
wrote panegyrics in pollen.
Which were not to be sneezed at, unless of course you have hay fever!
