A butterfly, without its pretty wings, is just an ugly bug.
That is to say, the sole value of a butterfly rests on its pair of fragile wings.
The same goes for her.
Her sole value lies on her two slender legs.
Too slender, too easily destroyed.
It’s not uncomplicated for a person with no legs to climb out the balcony, yet it’s not too difficult if one wills it.
Will she has, and plenty of it; nevertheless, it’s not the will to live.
Her blood spreads around her body like a pair of butterfly’s wings.
And she herself has become a butterfly.
She is carried away and the mob soon dismisses.
There’s only one person left.
He has come with a bouquet of crimson roses. Crimson roses are her most favorite.
Now both of his hands are empty.
The bouquet has fallen at his feet. There’s no clear distinction between the bloodstains and the petals.
She believed her sole value was her two legs.
She never knew her other values to him.
Was it her blindness?
Was it his?
Now it’s no longer important. What matters is whether he has enough will to carry on without her.