by Liliana Noemí López, Sections Editor
Window panes are weeping because children
Press their noses against them, their breath
Fogging up the glass face.
They weep when moths throw themselves
Against their cold glass countenance again and again:
Maybe if they just got out in the rain the watercolors,
The palette of God would bleed into their lifeless wings.
Window panes are what separate Juan Pablo from
Maria Iribarne, window panes make the little things seem like
Drops of eternity falling down an elusive glass window,
Caught between reality and the blurred vision