Woven in Songs

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.
.

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Categories: My Poems in 2008 | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment

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