The Old Man and the Butterfly

THE OLD MAN AND THE BUTTERFLY How many wishes and hopes pass through a man's mind? This is what I am thinking about while looking into the sad face of an old man who is motionlessly starring into the distance, as if down there, in the blue eye of the dreamy sea he shall find all the answers. And while the turquoise hands of the moon drive the shadows into the old man's embrace, a turquoise butterfly merrily flaps its wings and radiates rays of light along the dark ridges of this warm summer night above his trembling tired head. Perhaps this is the reason why the old man's sad face looks up instead of down, why the sparkle of life still glows in his tired eyes. This butterfly is very young, but his noble parentage is very old, and that noble parentage used to spread its turquoise light in the times of the old man's parents and grandparents, back in the time when hope was born (and people say that hopes are younger than solitude). It seems that the old man feels it, and he raises his tired eyes whenever he hears the harmonious sound of the butterfly's turquoise wings, and death, like a dark lady, respectfully waits for its turn, as if it took pity on the old man's boyish gaze; How many wishes and hopes pass through a man's mind while he helplessly sits and waits for death? I wonder where his thoughts are traveling now and which soul in heaven do they touch? His mother's soul? His father's soul? His brother's and sister's souls? Because souls are like butterflies, crawling the earth with people, only to eventually fly up to the sky, perfectly free and magically bright. All of this must be passing through the old man's thoughts while he looks at the turquoise butterfly in such a childish and lively manner. Everything on him is dead, apart from that childish gaze, which makes his old man's thoughts so young and so full of hope that his soul might soon enough fly up like his dear butterfly; How many wishes and hopes pass through a man's mind; yes, Lord, how many wishes and hopes are passing my old father's mind now. ©Walter William Safar