butterfly [Theme]

The wind chime strokes her hair gently. Windchime says: Cry

Look,

... hands... like the wings of a butterfly, their shadows with light movements strive towards the light... dancing on the wall... getting burned... going blind... the temptation to merge is irresistible... a couple more minutes and the light will go out... Thoughts will become clearer in the evening cloudiness of words... and stricter... just a couple of minutes... let's put them aside for an eternity of circling in a carefree dance of hands...

Snow, snow. Today he doesn’t even fall, but simply flies headlong, as if he is afraid of being late somewhere, not having time to cover the earth with a snow-white blanket. Snow butterflies fly onto your eyelashes, onto your hair, into your soul. And suddenly it becomes so easy and calm in this white silence. And I want to spin around and fly away with this snowfall. Fly to where it is always good and calm. Snow...

It snowed all day. I stood at the window and watched happy snowflakes slowly fly by. There are things that you don’t want to let go of because they give you beauty and peace. They also take us back to a fairy tale, to childhood. I remember, when I was little, I built huge snow cave-houses in the snowdrifts and hid there, believing that no one would ever find me. And these unusual secret flowers that you put under a piece of glass in the summer, so that in winter you can find a magical daisy or even a rose somewhere under a tree. In the evening there is another blizzard, and it’s so nice to be in a warm house next to your grandmother, who tells her amazing stories. The wood is crackling in the fireplace, but the fire slowly goes to sleep overnight. And the next morning you wake up early, when it’s still dark outside the window, and you quietly admire how the snow is falling, large white flakes, like butterflies, fly onto the glass, selflessly kissing it and lying on the ledge. And around there is a white, white planet. My favorite winter...

The soul, admiring you, flutters.

unbearably sweet and desperately tender...

A caterpillar can fly higher than a butterfly - only in the bird's beak.

With a palette of spring in my hands, I will paint the world in unusual colors with a brush of a mischievous wind, I will wash away sadness from tired eyes with warm torrential rain, I will smile with a dazzling rainbow, I will throw fluffy clouds of hope all over the sky and snow the earth with white bird cherry. And then I’ll put on my most beautiful dress, woven from a thousand flowers, and go waltzing with April, brush off all worries with the eyelashes of a light butterfly and fly, fortunately, like a swift bird, towards goodness, towards miracles.

You will feel how the warm rays of the spring sun warm the still unblown buds of tender lilies in your soul...

A stray butterfly has a bold soul.

Butterflies are always there. From meetings, from laughter, conversations, from knowledge, wisdom. In every moment of the day. In a glass of wine. In a licked dessert spoon. In sun glare. And in something carelessly beautiful, with a touch of a gentle kiss of spring on the lips.

... The light poured, streamed and fell at her feet, around which multi-colored butterflies circled ... laughing, they tickled her ankles, covering every millimeter of her skin with air kisses ... exactly the same fluttered in the lower abdomen ... and above, where the sun intertwines, clinging to the ribs, caressing the soul... what was it?... it seems... (no, no doubt) it was her... Spring... she silently looked into the darkness , but she saw the light... so tangible that, even if she closed her eyes, it could not be confused with anything... warm, soft and at the same time rough, spring-like light... it was her Light.. .

we all live differently.