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