Poem: Butterflies
Her name was Solitude, and she was alone.
like a seaport hit by a storm
she collected sad butterflies,
street addresses that don’t exist.
But she had the fancy
to play and make an exception with me
and, first, we went dancing
and, in the middle of an “What is your name”, she forgot me.
In regards to “Hope” she only had the name,
the one who didn’t expect anything from men;
she collected unfortunate love,
mutilated lead soldiers.
But, one night, she wanted to know
what a heart was good for,
and she drank wine one after another,
as any other hope she went out with a smile.
That’s why when time summarizes,
and dreams feel like nightmares,
comes back that dior
of yellowish photographs.
And although I know that she was not
the prettiest in the world... I swear
she was perfect from the perfection of a stare.
Her name was Immaculate, a mother Teresa.
who healed the recruits’ measles;
she collected summer clouds,
tulle vails gnawed by worms.
But she wanted to fall in love,
like any common blonde,
and that I would get her out of
“the world of kisses without love”.
And one thousand years later, when other cats
mess up my nights of madness
I evoke those moments
of clumsy, feverish desire.
And although I know that she was not
the prettiest in the world... I swear
she was perfect from the perfection of a stare.
(2015)
Preferido o celebrado por...
