AFTER THE FLYING BUTTERFLIES

The angel flew south...

And the magnolia rose with the northern scent.

    The youth go and can no longer be seen on the horizon.

Like the dandelion driven by the fantasies of a winter,

humid and warm.

       You can see that the breeze that walks through your cold hands,

end in a calm dream of July.

           And the virgin travels with the parasol open in the red parks of memories.

                 The sun could rest a little on your lap, and we would be engaged for ever, in the silent and closed altar, always the bells of the bells would make parties, and every spring landscape would be a memory in the album of loves of two children.

   I knew that the day came with the invisible stars of mysterious blackness of life, and the purple of the hummingbird's wings made the flowers jealous, poor romantic condemned to solitude that died in the dead of night after the butterflies had flown.

           He lives in dreams that the candle of white wax has broken only with disgust with himself, might well be for a lover, to kiss the softness of one who is melancholically contemplating to bloom, in the nooks of gardens full of gnomes, and translucent fairies, and the buds of May roses would say farewell to the withered daisies.

                   Then to wrap in the hands so white, the rosary beads of a noble virgin to look at the solitude of Our Lord on the crucifix.