Butterflies speak, that beauty is tender
If beheld, ever pleasing to eye
But touch it and, diminished in a breath
Try not ever, to contain beauty
It is to sense, and not to obtain
Capture the essence, never the object
Beauty is actually, felt by you within
Not the object but you, found its beauty
Not appreciated, beauty, is any other
If you like a song, a poetry, a tune
Wish not that others do, for you felt, not they
Rejoice in the feeling, for it is the same
As wished for by saints, in spiritual quest
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