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our lightless awful days are passing
splinters of memories prick our brains
daily our Creator beats us using both hands
we are his dry weeds husked to the core
for us fire is no fire for us it is…
The little blue butterfly was born in the red bell of a morning glory. She had been a caterpillar before that and had lived for a while in a cocoon, but she could remember nothing about it.
She peeped…
Illustration from the children’s book The Wanderings of the Little Blue Butterfly in Fairyland, first published in Budapest, Hungary, in 1912.