He who speaks with the shadows draws
a butterfly on his hands.
As he talked with each of the shadows
it kept on fluttering its wings.
When the scorching heat ascends on him
through the feet
It sheds tears of intense pain.
In those moments when he sleeps in
the shade of the tomb
It changes its hue into black and white.
In a deserted space,
when he starts doing a wrong with his shade
It swims away forever.