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
heavens.
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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