A clay hand presses down
On the struggling butterfly
Beating its yellow wings. Outside
The view of the baked tile house
Is blocked by long dried lavender,
And a soccer ball is caught
In the bush closest to the window
Fixed between branches
Suspended, high
Sighing away missed games
To the black electricity wires
Cutting across the cerulean sky.

Dusty nothing remains
From the aspirations of last year,
Hollowed out and shriveled up
The broken dried shell of a cricket
The soccer ball and the butterfly
Have been kept away
From where they should be,
They have lost their ground and their sky.
Oppressed, biding
Time, but not yet dying.