Una mariposa
My grandmother would tell me that butterflies are the souls of the deceased ones, who come to see us.
I've always wanted to have one sit on my hand.
So far I haven't made it.
But I am still hoping
That one day
Sooner
Or later
One of them will come sit on my hand,
Flutter its wings a little.
Slowly,
I like when they do it slowly.
And I will just be looking at it
With a sweet smile drawn on my face
Looking at it and wondering whether it's him
Or her
Or not.
But it won't make any difference
As I will gently blow its way and watch it fly,
Go around my grandma's flowers for a little while
And then disappear...
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