Clenched teeth, she is going to throw
her dear phone against the window

for the second time, fanning slow,
she is going to collect the pieces of sorrow

she mistakenly thought as flowery anger.
It doesn't shine blue, although it is fire

that burns true, that dances as kitten's purr;
Isadora sings, there is never a scarf so pure.

Sacred years, tingles between the pores,
sour-scented candles, scared youths, goodness

can only formed by time.
Butterflies are goddesses, they only

exist in sweetened myths. She,
she is a moth, timeless.