and this is a different story, played by the different butterfly...


.…and the butterfly didn’t understand. It flied around a yellow buttercup held in a strong grasp. At first, the hand shooed it off. The wave moved the wind around. It soothed the butterfly in this dry season. Wind run smoothly through its skin. Tickling sheer optimized by the pat of the hand. The hand admired beautiful pattern, which lingering on it. Butterfly really enjoyed, and didn’t understand. Then, the hand shooed, without patting. Minimum spoil made the butterfly reacted. It didn’t go away, but went nearer to the hand, asked for more. Then, I didn’t know what happened. I just turned my head for a while, attracted to adzan maghrib that stroke. Or adzan subuh, or the church bell, I couldn’t tell the difference. Since the puzzled mind was hardly processing what my ears heard, I came back to the butterfly. It was exhaustedly lying on a garbage pile beside the soil where the dandelions grew. And I heard the butterfly, “Ah, now I understand,” while it was struggling, twisted, in between stinky heap. The carbonate produced by the waste pulverized on the air, soaked into its skin, complete with low hiss. Ruined the beauty. And the butterfly said, “Thank you, for making me understand.”
Poor butterfly, I thought.