the butterfly

 The butterfly made a turbulent flight lands

on the hand that extends out of the window.

He experiences time, in it.

He swings his panting wings and falls to the side,

like a boat overturned by the waves of the sea.

The wounded, aged butterfly cannot stand its wings.

The hand wavers, now full heavy carries

the life of the butterfly,

But the hand works: you have to wash your face,

comb your hair, scratch your ears.

The hand does not have time,

it has to count the money to account for the day lived,

in fact still to be lived.

Besides, the hand is an employee,

the other hand, the heart, the brain,

the legs, the hand is a mafia member of the body,

it is a slave without manumission of life.

(a philosophy that consoles her)

for not being able to stop, before she dies.

The hand says to the butterfly:

"I cannot confabulate your death,

nor be a witness to your bad luck..."

there is not a single fern here for his perch,

and to serve as his rest...

What do I do now with this old butterfly? 

I know: I'm going to put it on the tiles,
shingles are earthy, and they are very fresh
because they are under other tiles.

So the hand with the butterfly went to the roof,
and the butterfly felt the abandonment and the cold bed.

the hand withdrew to its tasks,

In an instant a song of thrush was heard...
a mockingbird at leisure, oblivious to drama,
on the roof... A bitter emptiness
hidden within the feathers,

Appeared... The gray butterfly,
an insect just disappeared.