Fluttering by. A seemingly chaotic dance of dips and dives, of colours and their shades, without a beginning and an end, without a known purpose, to the endless song of silence. Not questioning the butterfly, not asking why or when or how or what; being with the butterfly we can lose ourselves in that silent […]
The boy was kneeling in the mud, hands clasped, eyes shut. His lips were murmuring a plea for rain.
His father pulled him up by an ear.