Though but a worm, she metamorphs
With body slain in chrysalis,
She rises in angelic bliss
And sets her course for gardens North

But streaking silver on a wind
Allows her prism eyes to see
The twisted grubs below, who feed
On suppers of sulfuric sin

The brimstone burns in bloated worms
No refuse they refuse to gnash
And in their blindness wade through trash -
The waste in which she, too, once squirmed

With outer shell now pierced with grief
So sharp, her heart it apprehends
And summoned groundwards, she descends
To offer amethyst relief

On deaf antennae falls her plea
Except one larva full of shame,
Desiring to change his name
New wings embraced, they rise, now free