domingo, 11 de mayo de 2014

Mariposas.







                                                                                                       ¿No eres tú, mariposa,
                                                                                                el alma de estas sierras solitarias,
                                                                                                       de sus barrancos hondos
                                                                                                       y de sus cumbres agrias?
                                                                                                       Para que tú nacieras,
                                                                                                       con su varita mágica
                                                                                                a las tormentas de la piedra, un día,
                                                                                                        mandó callar un hada,
                                                                                                        y encadenó los montes
                                                                                                        para que tú volaras.
                                                                                                        Anaranjada y negra,
                                                                                                        morenita y dorada,
                                                                                                  mariposa montés, sobre el romero
                                                                                                    plegadas las alillas o, voltarias,
                                                                                                  jugando con el sol, o sobre un rayo
                                                                                                        de sol crucificadas.
                                                                                                  Mariposa montés y campesina,
                                                                                                         mariposa serrana,
                                                                                                   nadie ha pintado tu color; tú vives
                                                                                                         tu color y tus alas
                                                                                                   en el aire, en el sol, sobre el romero,
                                                                                                         tan libre, tan salada! ...
                                                                                                         Que Juan Ramón Jiménez
                                                                                                         pulse por ti su lira franciscana.

                                                                                                               Antonio Machado

jueves, 8 de mayo de 2014