I am sorry for my crushed wings:

this wound so deep can't awake or sleep,

(unsatisfied sorrow again)

A scar eating perfection, desacralizing

my rusty horizon, killing eternity as

I cross my avenues of today, deforming

my own mysteries.

I am sorry for these folded wings:

a vulnerable art of living so distant from


A predator of pain, a pollinator of tears.

(I can't feed on flowers anymore, I can't)

My spirit has no wings, I am a weary butterfly

(I am sorry for these sun-burnt moments)

A knot in the thread, did I leave myself?

(did I?)

There is no trace of mine

(your marks on me)

An unknown draught cooling a tardy metamorphosis.

I am sorry for all those delicate things

I lost: indignities I hide under my skin.

A hesitant flight into nothingness.

I long for the clouds, I long for the salt.

Why does life go on?

Little matters,

little matters.

Karla Bardanza

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