Something scared the butterflies.
While they are sitting around tender flowers
sipping nervously something sweet for breakfast
I am cold. Orange-brown butterfly scrambles
on the little finger of left leg. I don't know whose
heart is pulsing faster. I don't even know if butterflies
have a heart. It is all sensibility. Of flowers.
Of butterflies. Of people. That’s why you are moved
by every sound and in some extended moment
of comfort you could remember the donkey
with gloomy eyes rounded with white. He was
searching a piece of shadow and quietness together
with you. Though a few crates of coca cola were hanging
down his back he was lighter than me. Relaxed.
Accustomed. While I couldn't stop thinking about
truly how many people are on this world. Maybe
that's why the butterfly was sitting on me. So we
could hold our hearts together and stop trembling.
So we could rest in the donkey's shadow and draw some
little white circles on the sun and postpone it
on others. To get accustomed. And drink coca cola.
Translated by Ana Pepelnik