O Butterfly, flap not your wings in Africa!
Each time you do a violent storm rips me apart,
though my love is not like the madness of oil’s price,
moved up and down by the pride of Caligula
and nor am I the Emperor, O silent Sky!
I was not born a thousand years ago, neither
would I live to see a thousand Springs come and go.
I wonder, had Nero known he would soon be dead,
would he still be playing on! Perhaps now we shall know
from the man with a caterpillar on his head!
But the Sky remains mostly as silent as God
and everywhere the mob drowns all innocence.
Despite the loud thunders, raindrops fall on the sea.
I smell the desert wind then a storm rips through me!