The Butterfly
William Lythgoe
The other night, or possibly
around three hundred years BC
I dreamed I was a butterfly,
free to follow a random breeze
yet always landing
on a flower.
I don’t know why.
It could have been
because I know, in China
over two thousand years ago,
a man whose name was Zhuangzi
told a story
that could have been true
about a man called Chuang Chou
who dreamed he was a butterfly
free to follow a random breeze
yet always landing
on a flower.
When he awoke
he didn’t know
whether he was Chuang Chou
who had dreamed he was a butterfly,
or a butterfly dreaming
he was Chuang Chou.
When I awoke
I thought I knew
I wasn’t a butterfly or Chuang Chou.
But who am I? Could I be
A man whose name was Zhuangzi
dreaming he was me?
