Down the road there’s an open institute
where the walls are fluttering alive
with butterflies pinned to the mortar
flapping their wings in vain
The sunlit halls are crowded with figures
deformed, mutilated and shunned
yet prideful as their needles
work glimmering pearl-bead threads
Sinful, sinful, those who heal!
stitched skin won’t hide your fears
fragile wings are made to tear
Flutter, flutter, those who dare!