The Butterfly
The rain continued to drizzle down on the small Paris street, washing the accumulated blood into the central gutter. A lone butterfly sat perched in a window box high above the barricade, twitching its antennae.
Gradually, the rain began to cease, allowing a pale midday sun to weakly pierce through the clouds. As soon as the rain had stopped completely, the butterfly gracefully launched itself off the ledge and wound its way down towards street level, fluttering through a smashed window of broken glass and into the tavern.
It came to rest on a splintered bannister, almost hesitating, before continuing its journey to the ground. It breathed its wings over a small boy with filthy hair which might once have been blonde, his wide, open eyes preserving his shock for eternity, and landed on the forehead of an tanned petite woman whose hair was so dark and black it could have been made of silk.
Her eyes were closed and she looked peaceful enough to be sleeping, if it were not for the rust brown stain dyeing her shirt and jacket. The butterfly visibly winced, waving its feelers from one side to the other in distress, and a near inaudible sigh came from its tiny body...
... With that, the many legs of the beautiful butterfly crumpled underneath it, as it folded its azure, marbled wings for the very last time and it too breathed its last. Its work here was done.
... With that, the beautiful butterfly flapped its azure, marbled wings once more and lifted up into the air, following a beam of sunlight out of the broken window and into the sky. It had work to do.
Let others rise
To take our place,
Until the Earth is free!
(Enjolras, Les Miserables)