It's getting out of the cocoon.
How does the hen correspond
with a butterfly, you ask.
See, everything's connected
somehow
with all the rest.
So let the hen take
her time.
Grab a blanket if you wish,
and disappear
under its vastness.
If a moth happens there,
and eats your clothes
it just proves
the above rule.
Stay in your body; may it
contain you
while you speed through
the galaxies
of your fancy
In the meantime
in the room
upstairs
lives an old woman
In the crack of a wooden floor
She keeps your
single hair
How did it find its way there
is your secret
power.
You must find
her whereabouts
where, bit by bit, you become
real
She can teach you how
to spindle, how to
break the thread, how to prick
your finger, how
to fall
out of grace
In her chamber
you can get
invisible
for some time, some
hundred years if that is what
is necessary
until
you bleed
zinnias
all the way
down the stairs
at the backyard
the hen
scratches her head
as she hatches
petals - or are they
butterflies
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