The broken bell...

This broken bell
still wants to sing;
the metal now is green,
the color of woods,
this bell,
color of water in stone pools
in the forest,
color 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 color of the bronze
turned the color 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 anymore,
no one gathers around its green 
goblet except one butterfly that flutters
over the fallen metal and flies off,
escaping on yellow wings.

This is the story of...