In paper still,a dream takes flight,
with creases crisp and edges light.
A butterfly born from silent art,
each folda whisper from the heart.

No fluttered breeze,no morning dew,
yet grace unfolds in shapes so true.
It dances not on meadow's bloom,
but on a desk in quiet room.

A fragile thing,yet strong with grace,
a moment held in time and space.
From hands and hope,it comes alive
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Origami wings that strive.