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■ I know what you're thinking, father
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FROZEN BUTTERFLIES
One hand dances Through the astral keys of gold While the other one spreads ashes On the old clocks that never cease running. And so, all that is left Behind your footstep Is an echo of the past – A familiar sound That once was so gently Thrilling the air. Seasons have flown away Like the solitary birds of passage That never find a place to settle And rest their tired wings. And so, cuddling Inside a season of bronze, I lost my cold kisses Inside the warm bell of loving, Those frozen butterflies Flying in sweet fever, Floating on my lips of ice In the middle of our winter.
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