The tantalizing lepidopteron powdered with stardust landed graciously on the lock, its four wings ventilating his fragile body. He only had one more week to live, six revolutions of days and nights, for, like beauty, fragile pretty creatures only live one season; time for a flowering, time for a brief shivering, and then, crumbling into dust. Golden particles settled on the bolt. The wit cat slipped the iron bar and now, unlocked was the cage. There free lands and gay rivers were smiling ; There, the crust of time smelled like fresh cookies ; There, wild winds called for folly and wandering. The wit cat sent its delicate flying friend to the other cages. There, the spread stardust opened all the gates of liberty. Hundred of white cats found their way out, and in, smuggling to a land of a thousand and one sounds, ringing like a crystal bell jar; to a land of prismatic colors fading into the solar spectrum; to a land of intoxicating fragrances strolling amidst herb gardens; to a land furrowed with a racing river, blue-turquoise, deep, tumultuous, wild and clear as the Himalayan sky, the queen of Asia, the Ganges River, mother of life; above and over shaman's curse; above and over two legs' property; above and over barred skylines. Here they go now, flying south, hidden in donkeys' dorsal bags, companions of fresh herbs and Kashmir's wool.

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