Butterfly-mourner. Somewhere far away there is a country where black butterflies live, huge as a mystery, tireless in their silent continuity, in their strange circulation over the baby's cradle. far away, in the land lying among the rocks, these butterflies bear a mournful name: tataguas. You can see that they come from the graves, that they want to say something in a language that is forbidden to human ears. They fly over the images of saints, perch on an oil lamp that fights against darkness and creates darkness. Butterflies with a terrifying name, with great mourning wings. They are probably pleased with the sound of the word tataguas, the strange music of these sounds; then they weigh themselves in flight, ecstatically still in the air, as if participating in the well-known reincarnation of the dead.
Butterfly-mourner. Somewhere far away there is a country where black butterflies live, huge as a mystery, tireless in their silent continuity, in their strange circulation over the baby's cradle. far away, in the land lying among the rocks, these butterflies bear a mournful name: tataguas. You can see that they come from the graves, that they want to say something in a language that is forbidden to human ears. They fly over the images of saints, perch on an oil lamp that fights against darkness and creates darkness. Butterflies with a terrifying name, with great mourning wings. They are probably pleased with the sound of the word tataguas, the strange music of these sounds; then they weigh themselves in flight, ecstatically still in the air, as if participating in the well-known reincarnation of the dead.
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