The Tree and the Chrysalis
by Bachir Lazhar
After an unjust death, thereās nothing to say. Nothing at all. As will become plain below.
From the branch of an olive tree, there hung a tiny chrysalis the color of emerald. Tomorrow it would be a butterfly, freed from its cocoon. The tree was happy to see his chrysalis grown, but secretly, he wanted to keep her a few more years. āAs long as she remembers me.ā Heād shielded her from gusts, saved her from ants. But tomorrow she would leave to affront alone predators and poor weather. That night, a fire ravaged the forest, and the chrysalis never became a butterfly. At dawn, the ashes cold, the tree still stood, but his heart was charred, scarred by the flames, scarred by grief. Ever since then, when a bird alights on the tree, the tree tells it about the chrysalis that never woke up. He pictures her, wings spread, flitting across a clear blue sky, drunk on nectar and freedom, the discreet witness to our love stories.
"Music gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination and life to everything."
Plato
