Zhuangzi invites butterflies into his deathbed.
And they come. Though it is broad daylight,
moths and loopers come too,
swarms of them buzz gloomily,

whirl around the teacher. He speaks:
"Today I dreamed
I was the master of butterflies. I taught them all,
large and small, light and dark,

furry and spotted. My lessons
had influence. They all awakened. The butterflies
woke and saw that they were butterflies . . ."
But night has already fallen.

Oh this beating around the lamp.
Light wings in milk. The shining powder of wings
on the worn table, people's voices, eyes,
the crackling of ancestors' bonfires.

Translated from Estonian by Brandon Lussier