🦋🦋🦋🦋Carriers of the Unseen Path🦋🦋🦋🦋🦋
They say the butterflies do not wander
they arrive with purpose,
drifting on winds that remember
the voices of those
who once walked before.
They are not fragile things,
not merely color and fleeting light,
but spirits dressed in softness,
messengers between heartbeat and sky,
carrying stories too gentle for words.
When one rests upon my shoulder,
I do not brush it away
I listens.
For in the quiet trembling of its wings
lives a language older than breath.
It speaks of grandmothers in morning mist,
of songs sung into firelight,
of prayers rising with the smoke
to meet the endless blue
where no soul is ever truly lost.
Each flutter is a memory returning,
each color a piece of the sacred circle,
where life does not end
but transforms
from flesh to wind, from voice to wing.
And so I walks softly among them,
knowing I’m never alone,
for the butterflies follow not by chance,
but by bond
a thread of spirit, unbroken, unseen.
In their presence, I remember:
I am made of the same mystery,
a bridge between earth and sky,
breathing, living, becoming
just as they do.
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