There are no river butterflies,
Although the river runs with wings
And azure tessallations glint.
I close my thoughts and pass them by.
Past sparkling games of liquid words
Where fish reflect the skies above
And ice and summer merge in flight,
Amongst the clouds of millstone grit.
Above, below, the air will flow,
The trout turn bridges into speech,
And hide beneath their arch of lies.
They make their truth, they dash for proof.
So rarely do we speak of things
As free as river butterflies.
for Ludwig Wittgenstein