Up they soar, the planet's butterflies,

pigments from the warm body of the earth,

cinnabar, ochre, phosphor yellow, gold

a swarm of basic elements aloft.

Is this flickering of wings only a shoal

of light particles, a quirk of perception?

Is it the dreamed summer hour of my childhood

shattered as by lightning lost in time?

No, this is the angel of light, who can paint

himself as dark mnemosyne Apollo,

as copper, hawk moth, tiger swallowtail.

I see them with my blurred understanding

as feathers in the coverlet of haze

in Brajcino Valley's noon-hot air.

                            [Butterfly Valley: A Requiem, traducció de Susanna Nied]

                            [Inger Christensen (Vejle, Dänemark, 1935-)]