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  • A long time ago three snow white butterflies emerged from a deep sleep, ready to inhale every aspect of the world in which they were to live. They spread their wings after spending many seasons gathering strength for their lifetime purpose. No one expected them, no one really knew of them, what they were or what they did. The sunlight reflected off of their wings and rainbows could often be seen around them. They were thought to be sheer beauty and they were often glanced over as just a beautiful moment of light and reflection, but mostly they were not seen at all.

    If they weren't already flying they would set out in the early morning or as the day reached dusk. Sometimes all three would fly together, and at other times they would fly alone, or none of them would venture out at all.

    They would fly from village to village, forest to forest, city to city, and from person to person and then to a resting place again. The wind blew them in general directions, but they would search out specific kinds of people. They would fly up to people who listened to their soul and those that listened to the breath of air. They would flutter, they would dance and sit gently on people and sing to them. It was often the young or the elderly who had time to listen, time to believe, time to dream and time to think and imagine - time to be sung to. But anyone could be sung to - there was no favouritism, there was no preference, only those who would listen.

    The butterflies would sing of ancient times, ancient beings, things unheard of, things unseen, of forgotten times, memories and places. They sang of hurts, loves, beauty and they would sing of hope, joy and life itself. They would sing in languages that could scarcely be understood, let alone repeated. Most words and phrases were beautiful, some words were frightening, yet all were full of tangible emotion - they made the soul float, made tears run or eyelids droop. Their words were raw and powerful.

    They could sing for days, or only for a few seconds. Time did not limit them and entire histories could be sung in seconds if they wished it. It was the most ancient form of communication - the breath of the wind and the music of the air. It was the sound of creation, death, beauty, life and of love. Time would seem to change. It would either seem to cease, and everything would slow, or time would seem to quicken as the heart raced and the mind became clear because of what was heard. It was the root of language, the root of meaning and it held power that few could comprehend.

    The singing butterflies have always been, have always seen, and have always sung to those who would listen. Children slept soundly when they listened, artists opened their eyes and saw the world anew, and the elderly smiled and accepted death as they shut their eyes for the very last time. The butterflies would bring peace, they would bring joy, they would bring love. They brought to the listener worlds of meaning, histories of the world in younger state, they brought comfort, emotion and energy. Though a listener's mind could not fathom the meaning of a song or even understand that they were being sung to at all, their soul listened and moved according to what was heard.

    And then the butterflies would move on, fluttering, being carried by the wind - carefree and full of joy.
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