Once upon a time, a butterfly was born one morning and sat on a rose. It looked down at a small rosebud nearby. The butterfly’s wings were bright and colorful, with shades of blue, black, and gold. It stretched its wings wide and drank the fresh morning dew, feeling very proud.
As it admired its beauty, a snail appeared, slowly crawling across the garden, leaving a shiny trail behind. The butterfly looked at the gardener and said, “Why do you take care of the garden so carefully, watering and trimming the plants, if creatures like this snail are allowed to crawl around and ruin it?”
The snail heard the butterfly and replied calmly, “You seem to forget where you came from. Not long ago, you were a crawling caterpillar, just like me. Now you have colorful wings, but that doesn’t change how you started. I have always been a snail, and I am happy to be myself. And don’t forget—your children will start as caterpillars too.”
The butterfly stayed quiet, realizing the snail was right.
One bright morning, a butterfly emerged from its cocoon, dazzling the world with wings of blue, black, and gold. It perched on a rose, striking a pose like it was auditioning for the cover of Garden Weekly. Spotting a tightly closed rosebud below, the butterfly sighed dramatically.
“Ah, the tragedy of untapped potential,” it said. “Meanwhile, I’ve blossomed into this fabulous creature. It’s exhausting, really, being this stunning.”
The butterfly flitted its wings proudly, catching the sunlight just so. It was busy admiring its reflection in a dew drop when it noticed a snail slowly sliding by. The snail’s shiny trail glimmered behind it.
“Oh no,” the butterfly gasped, recoiling. “What is that? Gardener!” it called, waving a wing. “Why do you work so hard trimming, watering, and planting if you’re going to let that slimy thing roam free? It’s ruining the aesthetic!”
The snail paused, tilting its little eyes toward the butterfly. “Pardon me, Madame Sparkle Wings,” it said, “but I didn’t realize this was your garden.”
The butterfly fluttered indignantly. “I’m not saying it’s mine, but look at me! I’m practically a flying masterpiece. You’re just… a slug in a helmet.”
“Excuse me,” the snail replied, drawing itself up proudly (as much as a snail can). “I’ll have you know, I’m a snail. Born this way, slimy and slow, but steady and true. No costume changes, no flashy wings—just me.”
The butterfly scoffed. “Steady? You call that trail of goo progress? You’re lucky the gardener hasn’t swept you into the compost bin.”
The snail chuckled. “Funny you should say that. Tell me, where were you last week?”
“Last week? Oh, I was… uh…” The butterfly hesitated, its wings drooping slightly. “Well, I was, you know… a caterpillar.”
“Aha!” said the snail. “A crawling, leaf-chomping caterpillar. Just like me—close to the ground, slimy in your own way. You might have fancy wings now, but you can’t erase where you started. And guess what? Your kids will start as caterpillars too.”
The butterfly blinked, stunned. “I mean… sure, when you put it like that…”
“And there’s no shame in that,” the snail continued. “We’re all part of the garden, you and I. You might flutter and sparkle, and I might glide and shine, but we both belong here. So maybe don’t judge someone just because their glitter is on the inside.”
The butterfly paused, then sighed. “You know what, Snail? You’ve got a point. I was a caterpillar once. I guess I shouldn’t be so quick to forget.”
The snail smiled. “That’s the spirit. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to leave a bit more of my ‘aesthetic’ over there by the lettuce. Keep being fabulous.”
The butterfly watched the snail glide away, its trail sparkling in the sunlight. “Well,” it murmured, “I guess even a snail can teach a butterfly something new.”
And with that, it spread its wings, flying off to admire the garden—not just its beauty, but everything that made it whole.
Beneath the bright and morning sun,
A butterfly's life had just begun.
It perched upon a blooming rose,
With wings as grand as nature shows.
Blue and black with golden trim,
Its beauty made the garden dim.
It sipped the dew and spread its wings,
Admiring all the joy it brings.
Down below, a snail appeared,
Its slimy trail was crystal-clear.
The butterfly sneered, its voice unkind,
“What purpose does this creature find?
The gardener works both day and night,
To keep the plants a perfect sight.
Yet here you crawl and leave your mark,
On petals soft, on stems, on bark.”
The snail looked up and calmly spoke,
Its words like wisdom softly broke:
“Once you too were close to earth,
A crawling creature of humble birth.
Your wings are bright, your beauty rare,
But do you know how you got there?
From caterpillar, slow and small,
You grew and changed—that’s nature’s call.
And though you soar, your children will,
Begin as I do—slow and still.
Be proud, but let your pride be kind,
For roots are what the flowers bind.”
The butterfly paused, its pride erased,
And felt its heart begin to race.
For in the snail’s slow, steady tone,
It saw a truth it hadn’t known.
The morning passed, the garden glowed,
With every creature in its mode.
And so the butterfly took flight,
Its heart renewed with gentle light.
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