I could find my child, who’s a butterfly lover,
Often bunking school granting many a reason;
Knowing her mad love, over the air to hover,
I allowed her to continue with no treason…

Having decided to find the reason from her
When, finally, persuaded her to open up;
Observing sage-like silence and eyes with no blur,
She blushed as though there’s a tempest in her teacup…

Pleasing, easing, teasing, tiring, tempting, mocking,
Persuading, convincing, coercing, smooth-talking;
Silver-tongued sweet words on her slowly showering,
Ultimately, she spoke up as though rock-shocking…

Does schooling teach one to fly like a butterfly?
Does butterfly, in a school, ever long-time lie?

(Sonnet)