Madame Butterfly

In my rendering of Madame Butterfly
There is no heartbreak and suicide.
Through panel rooms the sound of waves.
On a silk screen, the blue moonlight.
One gust of wind and it is spring.
Butterfly wings flutter on bronze,
The temple bells are ringing,
Flower and song flow into one.
No gods appear in the libretto.
No tear drop moistens a sleeve,
No ceremonial dagger falls to the floor,
No shadow feast will be served.
All night the nightingale floor is singing.

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