A butterfly tapestry in their clumsy flight,
It might have been an excess or a lack,
Looking at her with my shortsighted eyes
over warm grass drenched in green flames.
Her temples burning under wings,
A young girl was running,
Like a woman bent over piano keys
Tilting, dreaming and playing.
I don’t want a pinned butterfly,
I don’t want a grass blade in my book,
All other stories are the same
Was saying her to me aside.
She was running: dents, ripples, murmurs,
Sunrays, nervures, silk threads,
Watery green, my lessening eyes,
Transparent and light-colored bride.