Since There Are Actually Two Nights Poem by Miroslava Odalovic

Since there are actually two nights and I want to preserve only one
or perhaps you'd like to take the three of mine for the two of yours
whatever, therefore, since this is the way things are
I humbly beseech to be told
why did you cut the butterflies into the benches that carry no memories
into the benches too tired of endless waiting
hm, yes, I remember you were signing
your little books of justice your little books of the truths and lies
inserted some names 'haps mine was one of them
you had a golden pen and a tompus between your jaws
you made little smoke signals for the cases of inexplicable
being late for the independent exhibitions of the fossil remnants of your secretaries
under a vigilant eye of a well bred night, your night
you had you lakays and black polished shoes
and we all knew right away that you were rich
as rich as Mr. Hermit in the a wretched Thumbollina story
it was obvious right away, as full of money as a ship that had started swaying
much before any puthy cat had time enough to get green
it was obvious much after you took off your fur
and carelessly threw it onto the sofa sitting at which you were signing
and I think you were lucky that the twilight drew
only the sharp edges of poplars beyond the graves
and the names of the dead are to be remembered just a generation or two after the death
perhaps even three if one was dying really honorably
but let me go back to the point
since there are two nights and I want to preserve one only
I humbly beseech to be told
before the flowers have covered your ordains
and a fingerful of dust has fallen on your right shoe
just to be told one thing only...have you been dying too
you can be sure I ask this out of most honorable causes
equally honorable as those for which those believing in you have died
I ask this out of the perspective bending under your system of value
since there are two nights and I want to preserve one only
the one that 'haps no one else wants
even if you exchanged the three of mine for the two of yours
why did you cut the butterflies into the benches that carry no memories
the benches on which being covered by yesterday's newspapers
carrying bad, oh such bad news
I am now sleeping without being able to even utter the butterflies' name