hunting butterflies

my virus woke up
from a dream i thought
it was a nightmare
but it wasn’t
just a mask climbing
up a mountain practicing
the gaze of a flycow
staring at clouds unable to walk in straight lines

tiny insect bodies swarming over
the earth round and flat
starting another drawing with
ants at the bottom and ravens on top
ruling over the valley
designed by a postcard

remembering things
that have never happened
and forgotten things we did
being liars and fantasists
formed by a possible childhood
and nothing definite of the past

thoughts hopped by
in the shape of
butterflies accompanied
by the sensitivity of a horse
recently arrested by the unknown

for planting a forest
with books full of stories
and wisdom mistaken
for knowledge and incapable
of making important decisions
or undertaking any
significant actions

where thin air of two thousand meters
altitude wants to blow smoke
into the empty space of
a habit left in bed
left with a yodel
of a dominantly expressed
wish for submission
silently asking what happened
on the way from this mountain