Left behind by the Sun,
I spill my drops all over the sky ,
and fill it with all my magical hues .
From having an infinite blue canvas to paint
I slowly make my way to the clean white sheets
of the bedroom, where a tinge of me will paint
the destiny of a bride , who once
must have hidden me
among the pages ,
where , now ,
I lie faded along with the dead leaves
and yet tell a story
which once was of love
of which I am the symbol .
My sight pleases lots of
hearts in love but at another moment
disgusts people when they see me
on someone’s skirt , the sight ,
that is passed as a horror tale
but only in whispers.