I am a late autumn, I let wasps fly
I let butterflies sigh, under the glass ball
Of iced candles. November is a killer,
The morning darkness wraps me
And tries to mummify me, a blackbird forced
To stare at its temple. Neither gold nor dust.
The wind could not slay leaves
This year; a confused tree decided
To give shelter to a black timid
Butterfly. The moonlight is murderous.
It reveals only the eerie whiff of
A backdoor cat who, like a cynical criminal,
Slips into the nearest barn of stars to steal
Their shadows. Winter is an unusual lover,
He brings me sun. He brings me warmth,
My skin unfolds like a burning leaf
By the wind’s hair. His voice smells
Like the leaves of a dried wind. I open
My mouth I blaze. I part my legs
I freeze. His moustache prickles
Unapologetic, unasked for.
Black butterfly! In the barn
You gush through the alarmed
Voices, the raising hands of the tree.
Do not trust the accomplice moon!
It is artificial, it does not
Belong to the sky. It tells lies.
It batters the fly in a temple
Of sly darkness. When you die,
November will resign, it has
Already killed the season
Of many, while this winter,
I am not a lonely leaf in the barn,
Where the perplexed tree oversees…
Summer is perfected.
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