One Hundred Years of Solitude

butterflies fluttered about and
in the doorways of which
there were green and squalid
children sitting on their pots,
and pregnant women who
shouted insults at the train.
That fleeting vision, which
had been a celebration for her
when she came home from
school, passed through
Memes heart without a
quiver. She did not look out
of the window, not even
when the burning dampness