walk slowly down the path of acacias,
perfume hands me the petals of snow, my
fret hair under mild breeze
and the soul is like foam aristocracies.
Good genius, this day will ingratiate me, just a sigh
becomes eternal and brief me ...
Will I fly perhaps as the soul moves?
charge wings On my feet and dance the three Graces.
last night is that your hands, my hands on fire, so many sweets
gave my blood, then,
llenóseme mouth fragrant honey.
Tan in the clean fresh dawn of summer
much afraid to run back to the village
pinned to my lips golden butterflies.
De Alfonsina Storni
Photo: Silvia Cristina
0 comments:
Post a Comment