Flores
El cristal se ha roto.
Las flores se reflejan en sus pedazos.
Hay un jardín.
Nadie recoge los cristales fragmentados.
Hay una mano que se acerca
Y se corta.
Hay sangre,
El jardín se torna carmesí.
Las flores se manchan.
Son flores que no tenían colores
Y ahora tienen.
Hay dolor en ese color, ese matiz.
Hay mucho rojo.
Y hay muchos fragmentos.
Hay cristales.
Hay flores.
Pero todo sigue allí.
Flowers
The glass has broken.
The flowers are reflected in its pieces.
There is a garden.
Nobody picks up the fragmented glass.
There is a hand that reaches out
And it cuts off.
There is blood,
The garden turns crimson.
The flowers are stained.
They are flowers that had no colors
And now they have.
There is pain in that color, that nuance.
There is a lot of red.
And there are many fragments.
There are crystals.
There are flowers.
But everything is still there.