I live in an apartment

I live in an apartment
twelve floors high,
from where I can see
big and little birds fly.

Birds do gather,
they pause, confer;
each soft-winged wonder
they flock and they fly,
Young ones together,
the grown-ups nearby,
learning the patterns
of earth and sky.

Pigeons, dove,
myna, parrots and crow,
and with passing time
the retinue grow.

My balcony, tightly netted,
just to sit and watch them fly and tweet,
as I sip my morning tea,
warm, gentle, and sweet.

The balcony knitted,
yet I find a place to feed;
they peck through tiny gaps,
and take as much as they need.

Through a small hole,
a moth found its way,
hovering near my kitchen
as my morning tea made way.

I let them be,
for they meant no harm;
even as they fluttered all day
they did indeed charm.

One day I woke
a wee bit early,
much before dawn
and saw a butterfly swirling
around the bed lamp—
soft, silent and drawn.

Curious I was—
how did this find its way?
Was it a breach at night
Did the tight-knit net give way?

Curious still,
I rose for a hot cup of tea,
realised the moth wasn’t there—
not the one I’d expect to see.

Just then it dawned on me:
the moth had metamorphed,
shedding its waiting,
beautifully transformed—

into a butterfly.

The inner whisper told me,
gentle, clear, and free:
If you let other beings
‘simply be,’
one day it will delight
both you and me.