The Wind and the Butterfly: a fable

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Once upon a time, there was a crepe-paper butterfly, tied like a kite to a wisp of spun spider-silk pulled taut in a teary lifeline. Flitting and turning, tilting and lilting, the creature circled in the wind on the end of the thin strand.

Till one day, a southeast stormwind whispered in, sighing long songs of warning and want, words stirred like smoke from a deep Atlantic hearth.

Gently spoken, but brutal was the touch of his breath, violence striking the creature’s wings mid-flight, tearing great beauty half-in-two and sending her parts to the house of day and the mouth of night.

What words were lost to the lesser frame as her name was shorn and stripped, but hatred lacing each gusting phrase?

“No,” the wind wept and groaned, and mourned, and unseen, secretly grieved: “I only meant to lift you to the places I will never see.”

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