Butterflies

She spoke of the exhaustion

that bent our bodies

already by midday.

How we dragged our feet

pretending to be summer elders,

mocking the pain in our knees.

She said that a middle-aged woman

stopped her car and asked

if we needed a ride.

She remembered how hungry we were,

and the name of the yard where we sat

eating our only sandwich.

Do you remember too?

She asked.

And I said no. I don't remember

the exhaustion, the pain, 

the kindness, the yard...

I remember dozens of butterflies

dying on the melting road, yellow, 

slightly moving their  wings 

like crushed flowers breathing 

under an imaginary breeze.

such slow and excruciating death,

burning on the hell of asphalt.

And we were so young,

so mindless and happy,

full of future, dreaming of 

gentle dragons and fierce 

and strong princesses.

Oh, so many days ahead!

Oh, the glory, waiting for us,

majestic like a black stallion!

Do you remember how people

looked at us when we entered the bar?

And how you recognized

the call of that invisible bird?

No. I remember the butterflies,

no longer alive, not yet dead,

slightly moving their wings

like crushed flowers breathing

under an imaginary breeze.