Past the old trees, glass butterflies
fluttered their wings along the burning
surface of the waters.
Look at the dragonfly, you said.
See how it still holds on. Like us.
A little longer.
Only the shell was there, transparent,
full of the marvel of its hollow wings.
The fine leaves of the bamboo swayed over the lake
in the still silence, and the wings swayed too.
And on the burnished mirror that advanced
It was growing dark.
© Antigone Kefala