Imagine a butterfly, gracefully letting the wind brush its wings as they reflect the sunshine caressing their gleaming purity,
stroking the empyrean
with their
innocence,
coloring the sky more wonderful than Da Vinci's brush ever could,
as the oceans are revived by the tears squeezed from his heart, tumbling down as the first rays of spring penetrate the hardened hand of winter, releasing its grip at the sight of the butterfly´s pouring eyes.
Now, imagine the butterfly falling from heaven as its throne crumbles in the crispness of dawn, his wings broken by the harsh winds of fall,
his life floating from his cracked lips
as his scorned body
ignites
in the last rays reaching through the hand more clenched than ever, no longer afraid of the butterfly burning in the darkest of nights, his eyes telling stories of the pain of being beaten by time.
Imagine a
butterfly,
dying in the ashes of summer getting swept through the streets by the northern wind.
Imagine a
butterfly on fire, his passion put on ice, never to
ignite
again.