These are caring days.

We eat, we work and we bath --


These are perfect days.

Barefoot, my mother

squats next to me in the grass --


very intimate.

The tension is gone:

it's important, or it's not --


and now it comes out.

The dear family

photo, with a golden edge --


of melancholy.

The pointing finger.

Does it point to my finger?


To my path in life?

The blue butterflies live
on honey from the magic world
of changes -

the rain and shine
and the wing beats
of all the bodies

with more or less happiness
suffered injuries and tears
for unwelcome outcomes

I massage my aching belly
full of vampire moths
As long as I live

blue butterflies will
fly up from the womb
of my affection

Butterflies around

us, you and me, laughing we --


pamper each other.