We used to be butterflies from the playground to the street Chasing the burning sun while painting our stories using our feet. The sweaty skin heard our contagious laughter, Amazed and witnessed how we sketched our childhood thought it was forever, The featheriness of the white clouds and paper, We were innocent and fragile, We were there having one genuine smile, Rapturous enough to draw our playful imagination, Every day is always a recreation, It wasn't written incessantly the thing we used to know our hue, From the queer sky and to the blazing afternoon all we have is no clue. With the pointing finger of the clock, fading all the memories we built especially euphoria, We succeed in calling it a new beginning yet missing everything having nothing but the bitter-sweet pareidolia.
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