poem of the soul

The nightingale hath no repose
For joy that ruby blooms the rose;
Long time it is that Philomel
Hath loved like me the rosy dell.

‘Tis sure no wonder if I sing
Both night and day my fair sweeting:
Let me be slave to that bird’s tongue
Who late the rose’s praise hath sung!

O saki, when the days commence
Of ruby roses, abstinence
By none is charged; then pour me wine
Like yonder rose incarnadine.

Sana’i

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butterflies ride a flower

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