FROZEN BUTTERFLIES

One hand dances
Through the astral keys of gold
While the other one spreads ashes
On the old clocks that never cease running.

And so, all that is left
Behind your footstep
Is an echo of the past –
A familiar sound
That once was so gently
Thrilling the air.

Seasons have flown away
Like the solitary birds of passage
That never find a place to settle
And rest their tired wings.

And so, cuddling
Inside a season of bronze,
I lost my cold kisses
Inside the warm bell of loving,

Those frozen butterflies
Flying in sweet fever,
Floating on my lips of ice
In the middle of our winter.