A garden untended and ignored.

The bronze cracked and green,

the bell with its mouth open to the ground

and sleeping

was entangled in thorny bougainvillea

and the heard 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 its 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 monarch butterfly that flutters

over the fallen metal and flies off, escaping on

orange and black wings.