At the edge of sleep and waking,
she stands — a girl with wings made of silence,
and eyes dusted with moonlight.
Butterflies dance around her,
not to fly,
but to recite the forgotten tale
hidden in the folds of the flower she holds.
Her hair,
like roots of the night,
gently twines through the soil of dreams,
and the blossom in her hands
echoes the last dream of spring
brought to life by the hush of fluttering wings.
No one knows where she came from —
but those who gaze into her eyes
slowly forget
they were ever human at all.
basileus
