The Butterflies

Butterflies are the souls of infants That will never be born. They have no parents, yet I see themTheir progenitors have never been bornSo that they could come into the world. And here they are, although it can't beFor there is no reason for their descentYet they fly without constraint A never-ending feast They are the hymns and praises The tears and the endless lyresThe lilies that embalmThe cheeks of a young groom They are the butterflies, the lightsThe brides-to-beThe peace and lack of sleepThat this cool valley wants to keep. They are the weddings tooThe chills, the clear skiesAnd a dim horn call To the wonderful hunt. Translated by Maria Bebis

by Ioan Alexandru (1941-2000)