lost in the forest of my soul,
drinking from the puddles of honey-water,
that rain from the clouds of love,
which have become sore and swollen under
my skin . . . .
lost in the forest of my soul
amongst the trees of desire,
which are rooted in my spirit . . .
my soul slowly closes like an open palm turning into a fist,
the trees engulf her, embrace her, those green fingers smeared their red sap on her,
the smell of their pines intoxicated her,
putting her to sleep in the green cradle of my soul,
the birds of lust in my spirit, make their nests,
all over her naked body,
forming a blanket to cover her body,
they give her warmth and security,
she becomes their breeding ground,
her breath flies,
in the forest of my spirit
like a draft full of seeds,
pollinating my dreams,
the mother of life in my soul . . . .
When the cradle breaks, she will arise from this green cocoon,
with the red color of sap,
with the baby brown of the nests,
with the vivacious green of the trees
all blended to become the magical color of her wings,
she becomes a monarch butterfly,
my monarch butterfly.