The butterfly slowly wakes up from her long sleep confined in the dark cocoon. Thinking as a caterpilar she tries to move, unaware yet that what feels like a straitjacket tied to her are her own wings confined within the silk. The butterfly rebels, stretches, gradually breaking the cradle of her transformation. She emerges from the chrysalis wet, limp wings, twisted antennas. She gazes confused, still getting used to light, the little feet before only short stumps, now long lean gazelle like legs. Yawning she stretches the long probocis, frightened by her new device, and in delight smells the nectar. She had to bare eating the bitter leaves in order to smell this honey. The butterfly had to transcend the photosynthesis, breaking the light in the rainbow scales of her wings. Shivering them, flipping the tubes which fill with vital fluids and stretching out the wrinkles she opens up splendid. The butterfly will never know the glory of her beauty, but at the first impulse she learns in delight that she can fly. Dazzled with the flowers, sipping their sweet honey, she does not realize she can be as fascinating as such. Butterflies do not look in the mirror.