Tell me why butterflies carve
the farewells of their splendours
on the tombstones of empyrean wings,
why
they draw their colours
from the floriferous crayon boxes
of childhood,
and why hummingbirds
dip their beaks
in the aqueous watercolours
of the tunes
my mother whispered.
Tell me why the peduncles of sentiments
shoot out and bloom
only on our sorrows' sediments.
Tell me why the world is more riveting
in our pasts.
Tell me
if there is a place
that all the butterflies migrate.
Tell me that the world
is not bleeding out beauty.
Tell me
there is another world
made from the pixels' flocks
of all those migrant splendours;
tell me I am, my heart is
made from the pixels' flocks
of all those
migrant splendours.
Tell me why everything fetching and fair,
is fleeting.
Tell me why the remaining,
the residues,
are only
the cold and hard rocks.
