Dust and Ashes
It is spring. The butterfly takes to flight, soaring through the mist-free air. Free, for the first time, as brief as its lifetime will be. Out of the cocoon, into the air. Clear, at last.
Yet all is wrong.
The sun, once golden, is red. The sky, once blue, is red as well. The colour of blood – reminder of the past, and a ghost of the future. The grass itself has gone from green to brown, and ash comes down like rain. Colour is gone, and all that is left is monotony. A thousand years of infinity. The light is cold, the world is dark. A cocoon, of sorts, has formed once more. From which there can be no escape.
The butterfly struggles onwards, before landing – the ash coats its wings, and takes it to the soil, as if intent on burying it. Removing any sign of the world before. It rages against the dying light, yet the light itself is dead. The grass is rough and coarse to the touch. The soil reaches for it, like a deepness that cannot be fed.
The sun is its only witness. None shall sing its elegy, as ash becomes its pulpit bearer.
Soon, only the soil is left. Soon, it is covered by dust and ash. Soon, the mist will cover it all.
Such is liberation.
