When I write jacaranda
I see the empty courtyard
Foundering in purple
On a morning of war
Normal life entombed
When I write jasmine
I smell the scent of a memory
From a parched tree
Stripped of its leaves
In an empty, absent space
When I write bougainvillea
I am deafened by the clamor of the empty school
Embracing the red of a perfect autumn morning
That I can not but love to distraction
When I write frangipani
I tread on the creamy velvet of a first walk
In the sleepless neighborhood
Just after the shelling stopped
When I write honeysuckle
I taste the drop of nectar
Hidden in the ivory filament
That catches me in fragrante delicto