Up north, where the moon is Odin’s Eye.
Where the stars align, behind
The emerald, crimson sky.
Like vertical velvet carpets, dancing in the night.
The Northern Light, so bright
The most beautiful palette, against the earthly white.
In this world, where weather is a weapon.
Where the edge of a knife, defines life
There is something that should not happen.
A lonely butterfly, with its wings covered in ice
Wings once soft as cotton, coldly forgotten.
Permafrost killed its cries.
A dazed guest in this land so feared and hallowed.
A land that alter water, weaponize snow and ice.
The butterfly did not know, until the land swallowed.
If you would ask it: Why did you come here?
The butterfly would stare, with care
And answer you right there.
“Under the sea, is no place for me.
But I have these beautiful things, called wings.
They take me anywhere I see.
I belong in the air, whether hot or cold.
I chased the beautiful light, in the night.
It had the colors of my wings I was told.”
And you may think this is an allegory
For war, a child refugee.
And it might be.
All I did was tell the tale
Of the butterfly who chased the beautiful colored trail.
And found the unforgiving, treacherous veil.
Now veiled and forgotten in the snow so pale.