‘The prison of the Butterflies’ is dedicated to the four Mirabal sisters, political activists from the Dominican Republic fighting for freedom and democracy. Three sisters were killed by assassins of the dictator Rafael Leónidas Trujillo during their struggle. November 25th, the anniversary of the murder of the Mirabal sisters, has been designated by the United Nations as the ‘International Day for the Elimination of Violence against Women’. This poem is also dedicated to the women of Nicaragua.
The prison of the Butterflies
Nobody remembers the name of the first yellow butterfly
with blue eyes looking at the entanglement of history.
With two large circles she fills the days with luminous colours
from the springs that arrive late
to the gardens of the houses of rusty metal and wood rotting
from water and the winter cold.
In love with a dream they leave the pages of the alphabet
to live with the seeds exiled from paradise.
Trees grow others die when the stars are born
and fall from the horizon of empty words
empty like the promises of the cardinals and their cathedrals.
The first yellow butterfly in love
whose name nobody remembers madly in love
with Pan in the municipal garden
wants to fly, fly through all the gardens of the cities.
Yes, fly far away, as far as the tree of life
she leaves in the centre of the well in the desert.
Jailers imprison butterflies in the Temple of Stones.
The crime, the butterflies want the right to dream
and to do what they want with their time as free butterflies.
They want to be free to choose the place, the hour, the tree, the garden
the freedom to choose when they want to be roots
and moons in the sea of cosmic lights.
If she leaves or does not leave swarms of butterflies in the garden
of houses of existential cold she decides this with Harmony.
Mr President of the banana plantation wearing guerrilla green
and presidential sash down to his heels
imposes laws to exterminate the butterflies of History.
And the butterflies live illegally in the big banana plantation
die in the obscurity of streets without numbers
And alone fly and fly and fly far from the barbed wire.
© Carlos Reyes-Manzo
Translated by Valeria Baker
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