A rose opens
A rose opens her legs; she lets her perfume ascend from the ground. No one is prepared to know, only other roses, ignorant of their behavior as a very hungry and powerful rose-pack.
The rose blossoms, opens herself, aggressive, arrogant, exuding her terrible aroma, ready to devour. He who approaches cannot ignore, it is impossible to do so; to miss the slow spreading of the rose’s open petals. Her thorns are barely safe keepings; fake earrings to scare away the unsubstantial ones. The true attack of a rose takes place outside, on the field or country lane, impervious for the smell-blotted, endearing for the transient.
Mother Nature, that ardent woman, who forges beings on whim, she is the one that has determined the existence of the feeble, the abstract ones. They, ignoring their intrinsic weakness, think themselves strong, bold, and immortal. When the rose opens, they cling on to her, driven by desire, and call themselves promiscuous, attackers and conquerors; the insects. The sweet male butterfly penetrates; drinks, and gets inebriated, retreating once he believes himself satisfied; but in truth, the real possession, the real abuse, is having been perpetrated by her, oh ethereal rose.
Traducción al inglés de este texto.
Fotos de Wara A. Godoy.