There she was every night:
mutilating a flower in the dense darkness,
breaking the silence with weak sobs
Letting her tears flow
'cause they have shackles in daytime.
It's them:
drops that fracture the gate of her eyes,
a rain of dying stars
that leave a sad and shiny wake
going down for her face.
With the petals, those stars scatter,
sick of uprooting,
and the dead body of a flower
that's still dead between her hands.
Mutilation of night flowers
Mutilation of night flowers
Her refuge, within the shadows,
are her freedom and her flagellum:
what's denied, the frustration
and of what's not allowed, the persistence
a tie to whats nonexistence,
'cause there's no options, there's no change,
every petal says the same.
Every petal says the same. |
