While at first sight it gives us
a mutilated Spring,
all shades of green splash together and merge,
trying hard to bring something into form.
Like a small river in a grove where
a tender-faced nymph appeared
and walked smoothly into a pool
dreaming of her own mortality.
Silence is on the canvas but loud in the myth
preserved inside a memory.
The nymph, her nudity on the river bed,
iridescent, the color
Back at my hometown there was a cave where, though a long time ago,
bones of dead women were stored and piled at the first eclipse of the year ,
so they could be resurrected by some unknown forces to become,
as the locals believe, the ladies of the woods.
The first thing these ladies would do was to find their husbands,
if alive, and transform them into tigers.
At night if you heard the racing wind come with roars of some mighty beasts,
It was them, the ladies of the woods and their lovers,
engaging in an orgiastic ritual as the night sky perpetuated their images
into different patterns of stars.
My grandma told me this story and she pointed to the cave on the mountain,
“we are all sons and daughters of these ladies”, she said as she wiped her eyes
with the corner of her black dress, the one she wore at my grandpa’s funeral.
“but you can’t find them anymore” .