The broken bell...

This broken bell
still wants to sing:
the colour of woods,
this bell,
colour of water in stone pools in the forest,
colour of day in the leaves.

The bronze cracked and green,
the bell with its mouth open to the ground
and sleeping
was entangled in bindweed,
and the hard golden colour of the bronze
turned the colour of a frog:
it was the hands of water,
the dampness of the coast,
dealt green to the metal
and tenderness to the bell.

This broken bell
miserable in the rude thicket
of my wild garden,
green bell,
wounded,
its scars immersed in the grass:
it calls to no one any-more,
no one gathers around its
green goblet except one
butterfly that flutters
over the fallen metal and flies off,
escaping on yellow wings...