The day is over.

And still so heavy on the mind:

in flew glowing, smiling Mother, butterfly

in yellow

to the frowning cactus crowd.

Finding flowers - even there - to flutter round.

I thought, Isn't Mother grand?

The way she flies and flies

into the sting of the cold

and the prick of the barbed wire.

Isn't mother grand

to gladly fly and swiftly fly

into the sting of the cold

and the prick of the barbed wire.

The day is over

And still goes ing through the mind:

in came glowing, smiling Mother, sure and kind.

To rouse us

to give ourselves out and to cry.

Birth to warm intentions, worthless otherwise!

Oh, the lives that brush against us,

us by and by,

the friends who may or may not come

if we would first invite.

Oh to open doors,

to always gladly fly and fly

into the sting of the cold

and the prick of the barded wire