Erratically, like a brown dot against the feeble meadow, unwary and capricious, a small brown butterfly flaps by. From flower to flower, from stalk to stalk, it skilfully dances between those in blue and yellow roaming around. Unfazed by the snapping echoes of loudspeakers, it flaps its’ wings again and again, causing tiny perturbations of air beneath.
Will it be enough to cause change? A change to aid those bombarded, those dying while desperately defending their country? Will these perturbations be enough to fulfil the distraught cries and pleas echoing over the open space, shouted by those having fled, leaving behind all they know, now bombed to ruins?
Again the tiny brown butterfly flaps its’ wings, again it rises from one blade of grass, again flutters indifferently towards the next.