Somebody said when snubbed, “Is Damon so
Beautiful he doesn’t say hello?
Time will exact revenge when, bye and bye,
Grown hairy, he greets men who won’t reply.”
Butterflies ride a flower
under wings that grew
from the water’s song.
They dress in dreams
the wind cuts with a knife
along the sidewalks of the moon.
The breasts of butterflies are perfumed
by their secret liaisons with the sun.
They age gazing at the stars
owned by a vagabond.
They drink the rainbow that crossed
the back of a child in full flight.
When butterflies die
they migrate to your soul.
Roxana Miranda Rupailaf
O Lord, if I worship You because of Fear of Hell,
then burn me in Hell;
If I worship You because I desire Paradise,
then exclude me from Paradise;
But if I worship You for Yourself alone,
then deny me not your Eternal Beauty…
Rābiʿa al-ʿAdawiyya al-Qaysiyya
She lies, hip high,
On a ﬂat bed
While the after
Plant, I breathe ——
Eyes legs arms hands ﬁngers,
Simple legs in silk.
This cozy cotton bower conceals
Zephyr wrapped in sweet perfume;
In a silk and woolen womb,
Zephyr sleeps with laughing heels.
When the Zephyr lifts his wing
In his cotton-down retreat,
When he flies where robins sing,
His soft breath smells so sweet!
O quintessential breeze!
O distillate of love!
Day’s dew as it dries
Perfumes the sky above!
Jesus! Joseph! Jesus! Mary!
This odor, like a condor’s wing,
Cradles the devotionary …
It sweetens us and makes us sing!
I, who rebuked the lazy,
sleep late into the morning.
¡Mi corazón es una mariposa,
niños buenos del prado!,
que presa por la araña gris del tiempo
tiene el polen fatal del desengaño
(My heart’s a butterﬂy,
good children of the ﬁeld,
pinned by time’s grey spider,
ﬁlled with disillusionment’s deadly pollen.)
Federico Garcia Lorca