I sat, as always, alone in the field, surrounded by butterflies.
The butterflies, with their translucent wings in all the colours of the rainbow.
And as I sat, I wished.
I wished that one day I could be free like them.
I wished that one day, I would fly.
Then, I grew up.
“Fly with me,” said he.
“I can show you the stars,” he told me.
“What if they burn me?” was my reply.
“Then I will take you to the moon.”
“What if I float away?”
“Then I will hold you tight and never let go.”
“Take my hand,” he said.
“I can show you the world.”
I said no.
I refused the best opportunity of my life because I was afraid.
Where’d the little girl in the butterfly field go?
I don’t know, but she’s not here.
She left years ago.
There’s only me left now, and I’m afraid of my own shadow.
The butterfly girl would have grasped his hand, and hung on for dear life.
But I am not her, and she is not me.
I am different, changed, evolved.
Perhaps not in a good way.
Perhaps it is a curse, to be like this.
I have not lived in so long.
I have merely survived.
I wish now, that I had said yes.
I wish that I had flown with him when I had the chance.
I tucked in my wings.
I didn’t let them show.
Now, as my bones grow old and withered, I know that my wings are folding up for good.
I wish that I had spread them while I could.
"Fly with me."
If someone asked me that now, I wouldn’t hesitate.
I would spread my pale, fragile wings.
And I would soar.
Críoch \\ End
Go raibh míle \\ thanks a lot xxx