[img][link]

Clearly, Miss Fly,
you fly graciously.
You draw yourself in the air,
draw yourself with a shadow
shifting on the walls.
You seem to be laughing at me,
because I don't look at you
half-heartedly,
and you stop on my nose,
park on my head,
rest on my shoulder
and while you say it pleases you
Miss Fly
that I move my hand uselessly
to kill you
you flee
taking flight,
and you land on my bread
my tostadas, my books
that await your arrival.

O, Miss Fly,
they tell me that you could
bring terrible harm
but I don't believe them,
and wherever I wander
I'll run into you
again,
bothering me with your
buzzing.
And surely
only idiots
buy fly-swatters
or an old newspaper,
and chase you
until they fall
dead.
It's the province of the lazy
this thing of killing flies
daily,
but you, Miss Fly,
don't scare either cows
or dogs.
I warn you:
if someday I could
call a meeting of all the wise men
of the world,
I'd have them make
a flying apparatus
that would finish you and your pals
off forever.
I only wish that you never eat
nor see my guts
the day that (if perhaps)
they kill me
in the field
and leave my body in the sun.

Javier Heraud