This was not my mother’s Mephistopheles,
where he stole a violin from an
unsuspecting fiddler;

No, if butterflies did exist in Hell,
where the pulsing of thousands
of delicate wings beating
themselves into submission
a thousand times over
in a small, badly-lit corner,

as every possible color dissolved
over and over again,
as the flames grew brighter,
with the moon-kissed wings of insects
beating on until their very last breath—

Liszt has created this.