Golden warmth of sun doodled Something on her cheek. Like the resurrection of soft dawn in Alaska, Gradually she opened her cheery eyes And whispered inside my numbness, “I can make colours fly.” Slumber shattered into pieces of bliss As she entangled the tenderness Of her fingers, and Her palms in synthesis, And made it fly like a mythical butterfly. My amused self asked her curiously, “Where are the colours?” Holding her dancing butterfly Infront of my eyes She replied in a honeyed voice, **“Those are flying amidst your insight.”