In a not so secret and forgotten garden…

under brown and withered flowers I found

the image of ethereal fingers of winds

that stopped moving with a dead butterfly.

I shed a tear that came from deep my soul,

because what I was seeing was the end of life,

no rivers moving toward the mighty seas

and no watchful eagles flying on my skies.

Tell me, you that have gone so many roads,

should, when finding one dead on your path,

cover with earth those delicate fallen wings

or let them to be taken by mercilessly decay?

For the life end of a colorful little thing

should be stopping in that garden and cry?

One day we will be under withering flowers

our wings not moving, like that dead butterfly.