The caterpillar does not know good from evil,

Or life from death

The caterpillar simply lives;

Takes the day by its dawn

And keeps going until the setting sun lulls him to sleep

He knows that there is something else inside of him,

Something yet unbecome,

He knows this because he has spent all of his life so far

Building up to something greater; something

Some people would call destiny

(A caterpillar, of course, would never have considered destiny;

their vocabulary is too small, and not like ours to begin with)

He surrounds himself with gluttony

Eats and eats until the sound of a nearby robin scares him away

One day, when he would be too fat to move anyway,

He awakes with something different stuck in his tiny brain

So off he goes,

And he finds a lonesome branch

Surrounds himself with inch after inch of soft-woven silk

Like a flower closing for nightfall

Or a worm returning to the dirt

And when the last thread of silk blocks out the burning sun

The caterpillar finds himself in complete darkness

He relaxes all his muscles

And can feel himself sinking into a deep, deep sleep

He does not know much,

But he knows that he will see the sun again,

And that when he does,

All will be good

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