After heartbreak, a new illusion is always welcome ("the first of all pleasures," like Voltaire puts it); it heals the ache caused by the broken one by replacing it, the balm of hope refreshed. The constant pursuit of pleasure, the emotions rioting within, the deep sigh of longing or the long exhalation of despair thrown in the air, they are like butterflies.

And Off Illusions Go

Once they are out, our moaning butterflies,
and in the fretting air they beat our grieving,
the lighter wings soon flap towards pink skies
and cause at least some tears about their leaving.

See, we shall not control illusion’s fails.
She’s fond of crazy love and its recoils,
for she believes in all the rosy tales,
and in the word which judgement truly spoils.

So sweet and gay our winged dreams may look,
but only crave for what is yet to be,
what’s always lost or fate already took,
or what will keep us in eternal plea.

Broken illusions leave us for a reason;
their sad farewell shall not be ever treason.