Six o’clock. Seven floors up, an unfinished building. No windows of course,
just the fainting sound of pins and some eloquent hammering.
Once in a while.
The sun is not setting, but is a melting drop of water,
a kind aquarelle.
He is looking towards the orange, yellow, blue, highway.
The highway is also fading close to the sun. Spurious smog, dement noises
and his uncommented stare. Heavenly moment now,
a petulant butterfly stands on his shoulder.
Oh no, her yesterday heart, is lost in the modern breeze of disillusions.
Her hair spread all over and the silence of doubt.
Nothing but his voice, hardly soft.
His words, like everything she got to discover in life,
cold victory cheers:
come on now, jump, dear, you can do it.
Never afraid was she. Usually bored, nonetheless.
But this butterfly, damn.
This butterfly is swinging in the air,
and listens to my song.
storni 03/26/03