Last night
in a nook in my flowery garden,
there took place
the funeral of a beautiful butterfly
killed by the wind
in a whirl of colors.
The candles of twelve fireflies
burned round the lost one
and there officiated
an old Scarab
of the Capuchin Order.
Four rows of ants—
black nuns come
from a convent nearby—
formed a large square:
in the centre was placed
the bier of rose leaves.
An invisible nightingale
sang harmonies of paradise:
there accompanied him the violins
of many mosquitoes
and a hundred crickets strumming
blades of grass: chords
of mysterious guitars.
On the bier,
a slender lily, faded,
its long arms extended.
All the flowers of the garden,
gathered round in adoration,
murmured Ave Maria’s of perfume.
