by Antonio Napoli

THE BUTTERFLY’S STRIKE

At the height of the clash between the armies of two African kingdoms, a warrior, slightly wounded, broke away from the fray and sought refuge in the mountains. As he climbed the steep paths, the clamor of battle faded, and soon the uproar became a distant echo, until it was completely swallowed by silence.

With nightfall, the warrior, now alone, advanced cautiously, fearing that every rustle or creak might conceal danger. Each step seemed to echo in the darkness, each breath a foreboding of death. He could not turn around without slashing the air with his sword, terrified at the thought of being attacked by an unseen enemy—or by a comrade confused by the shadows.

Then, suddenly, something caught his attention. A noise, a rustle. A few moments later, the warrior struck something. The moon, piercing through the clouds, revealed a scene that paralyzed him: blurred, pale shadows, ashen in appearance, wandering silently and disembodied through the forest. They were the fallen soldiers, their existence growing ever fainter, like the memory of a forgotten battle.

One of these shadows stopped and, as if sensing the warrior’s presence, drew closer. With a voice that seemed to come from another life, the shade spoke, recounting its story in a few words:

*”Our commander, at the peak of his campaign, called for reinforcements. Without hesitation, they were granted, convinced that his victory was inevitable. But it was not so. He led me and my comrades to die on this foreign land, where the song of birds and the scent of flowers, for a brief moment, gave us the illusion of still being human. I, young and lost, fought, hoping to find meaning, to take pride in this struggle. But it does not matter: our bones will never return home. The earth that receives us is the same for all, and the cries of mothers, fathers, children hold no meaning anymore, nor any color. Pain is no longer ours, just as love for what we have lost no longer belongs to us. We walk lightly, freed from the weight of weapons and passions, under the glow of a full moon that illuminates these lonely paths. We wander for an indefinite time, harming no one, expecting no harm from anywhere.

You, who are still alive—if you wish, refrain from the fury that consumes you. The path to softening your heart, and that of others, is a narrow one. Do not live your life—nor let others live theirs—like the brief lives of butterflies tossed in a storm of wind.”*

At dawn, the warrior made a decision. He remained in the mountains, determined to live a life far from violence and the chaos of the world. A legend soon spread: it was said that this hermit had learned a deadly strike, a secret technique, and soon many came from far and wide, swords drawn, eager to witness this skill in action. But whoever returned from him was changed—they no longer dared to wield a sword. They no longer raged, no longer answered provocation, no longer harbored resentment or hatred, not even toward those who had wronged them. They found contentment in the smiles of others, lived with the essentials, and shared freely with those who had less.

One day, a young man arrived at the hermit’s doorstep. With a scornful smile, he tried to provoke a reaction from the hermit, who sat still, his back turned, meditating. The young man drew his sword and, in a surge of anger, launched his attack. But the fight proved futile, like struggling against emptiness. The room was vacant, the silence profound, and yet the young man kept swinging his blade. At last, with one final, clumsy strike, his sword fell to the ground. And in that moment, a butterfly landed gently on his wrist, as if sealing a fate he could not yet understand.

The hermit then turned. His presence was like a vision—both weightless and profound. The young man, paralyzed, realized too late that the true blow he had received was not a physical one, but the one that had transformed the very essence of his life. He returned, calm and at peace, to his warlike people.