
I could have written this poem at the foot of a carob tree,
with my head floating above your belly,
fingers brushing
against each of your breasts,
breath
weaving butterflies
in the falling flowers
to cover you
and make love without touching.
The poem
could have been the hummingbird's shadow in its nest,
petals and thorns that don't wound,
it could have been torn on the tree's bark,
but trees also weep when their skin is mutilated.
I am not beside the carob tree,
but under the rain,
exposed to the elements.




Este poema pude escribirlo al pie de un algarrobo,
con la cabeza flotando sobre tu vientre,
dedos en el roce
de cada uno de tus senos,
respiración
tejiendo mariposas
en la caída de flores
para cubrirte
y hacernos el amor sin tocarnos.
El poema
pudo ser la sombra del colibrí en su nido,
pétalos y espinas que no hieren,
pudo ser rasgado en la corteza del árbol,
pero los árboles también lloran cuando se les mutila la piel.
No estoy junto al algarrobo,
sino bajo la lluvia,
a la intemperie.



Si aún tiene votos de testigos disponibles, considere también votar por el testigo que dirige @stresskiller

!BBH

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