Algún maestro me dijo una vez, que las mariposas son palabras de colores que vuelan

Y así más o menos, funciona el amor.

Pensé:

Las mariposas, son sutiles policromías cuya única labor de vida es trasladar el polen de las flores. Las palabras en el amor, son como el polen para las plantas.

Las mariposas y el amor

Los colores y aquel lienzo que te invita a pincelar sobre él

Las palabras y su causa y efecto.

¿Cuántas mariposas estuvieron presentes en la primavera que inspiró a Pizarro?

Entonces te miro y me pregunto también

Si estos recuerdos se quedarán conmigo siempre.

Por esta razón, si mañana llegase a olvidarte

Hoy quiero contarle a mis poemas que hemos cantado y hemos bailado,

Tanto como hemos reído y hemos llorado.

Y dirás que soy pesimista por pensar que mañana podría olvidarme de ti

Pero todo lo que he escrito será lo único que nada podrá quitarme

Cuando Neruda escribió veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada,

No lo hizo para que el mundo le recordase a él.

La poesía, -amor mío- es lo único que no tiene fecha de caducidad.

Primavera en Pontoise – Camille Pissarro

Fuente

ENGLISH

A teacher once told me that butterflies are colorful words that fly.

And that's more or less how love works.

I thought:

Butterflies, are subtle polychromes whose only life's work is to carry the pollen of flowers. Words in love are like pollen for plants.

Butterflies and love

Colors and that canvas that invites you to paint on it.

Words and their cause and effect.

How many butterflies were present in the spring that inspired Pizarro?

Then I look at you and wonder too

If these memories will stay with me always.

For this reason, if tomorrow I were to forget you

Today I want to tell my poems that we have sung and we have danced,

As much as we have laughed and we have cried.

And you'll say I'm a pessimist to think that tomorrow I might forget you

But all that I have written will be the only thing that nothing can take away from me.

When Neruda wrote twenty love poems and a desperate song

He did not do it so that the world would remember him.

Poetry, my love, is the only thing that has no expiration date.

Springtime in Pontoise – Camille Pissarro

Fuente

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