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
A sun without rays
spills on green mist.
The shaded riverside
dreams at the pace of a boat
and the unavoidable
bell measures melancholy.
In my spent soul
the sound of a small
Federico Garcia Lorca
The stars shone…as if they were zero signs
written in the sky
which was like a hide black with the ink of darkness,
with the Moon as a piece of chalk,
by the Creator reckoning the extent of the universe,
because of the total emptiness (of the universe)