Luce

In the clearing at the end of the woods, where the path deviates and loses track, lives the naiad with rose cheeks and a sweet smile. She wears a dew blanket, light blue topaz clips and, on her hair, a holly and juniper flowers diadem. She plays with the crickets during the calm summer nights, dances with the blossoming bluebells on a full moon.

Shy and cautious, she keeps herself at a distance from who comes from the woods and he’s not worthy of her. She hides behind wild orchid flowers and hawthorn bushes, silent like a fawn. Those are the moments in which it is barely possible to see her reflex: feeble rays of light crossing the fronds like sparkles on the surface of a stream.

Down there, in the clearing at the end of the woods, the naiad guards a light ring that holds all the freshness of the winds, the chirping of the swallows, the spring afternoons. Like a precious flower, that controls life, she will give it only to whom will prove himself delicate and gentle. Like a butterfly, that seems apologizing when landing on a flower.