It was an overcast day. Gnarled Yellow leaves of a droopy and branchy tree were rustling under my feet. Grasping my mother's hand in the pure days, the chirping of a quail had been heard. The ardor of childishness amidst captivating and winding byroad of thatched- shed alleys in the autumn had extolled it to much more buoyant day to stroll down to the dim and murky yard of my grandmother.

We crossed pass the alcove. The yard was covered with dried blackberries. After having waited for a while, I started to find a butterfly gyrating and hovering above my head. After a pivot it plummeted to a little pond full of goldfishes swirling among each other's scale. They were rippling the flat surface of the water, in order not to let the water in the pond be stagnated. The butterfly remained buoyant on the surface, striving for the last split seconds of its life. Goldfishes came dancing and revolving around its body, fining their fins as if they were mending its broken wing. The wind was breezing through the surface. The little butterfly was on its way to death. In twinkling of an eye the butterfly was slugging away to the edge of pond by the fanning- like movement of goldfishes` fins. Once again the butterfly was next to ashore. It clung to the edge of pond where angles meet. The little butterfly was saved by goldfishes` accompaniment. Once again it opened its wings and ascended to the air.

تقدیم به مادر بزرگم مهری