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.
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