A black butterfly
sprinkling the dust of its flutter
on my eyes
skywrites in my heart:
every butterfly
is mourning for you.
A drop of ink connotes
so deep in my pen:
all the words in the world
all the sentences unwritten,
are mourning for you.
A moment of silence
whispers to my ears:
every sound, soundlessly
every song, unsung
in the world
is mourning for you.
A drop of paint
a dropping dew,
a falling petal,
an autumnal leaf,
floating under my window,
serenades to my muse:
all the colours in the world,
all the blooms
in water-colours' springs,
all the rainbows in crayon boxes,
all the lacerating roses,
all the ambrosial
bowing branches of gardens,
are mourning for you.
A night breeze, a tender breeze
susurrates in the ear of my senses:
all the distances
with their necks bridled in horizons,
are mourning for you.
A bead of musical note
in my ear,
on the staffs of instruments,
dressing all in black,
sighs through the cords:
all the lamenting violins
all the piano keys , flapping in penumbras,
all the groaning guitars,
are mourning for you.
A drop of tear shines in my eyes:
all the bleak hearts,
all the broken ones,
all the weeping eyes,
all the ardent appetences,
are mourning for you.
You my morning, my eternal mourning,
you the endless silence
in my words,
my eternal free verse,
you the endless sky
eternal whiteness
of my canvas,
and endless iridescence of butterflies,
and now
the endless surge
of ink
in this pen!
__________________
Note:
It was at my father's funeral that I saw a black butterfly and said to my sister: " Even butterflies are mourning for dad." Then the rest came after.
