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