As a swirling adoration spilled over her eyes, a river that cried over teacups,
Mirásol looked at the sun.
With rebellious tresses that ran away to golder hues and skin glossed by the heat of fire,
Mirásol would always see the sun's kiss.
With glistening, beady pools that danced freely down her arms and soothing sensations of amber that sunk deep into her fingertips,
Mirásol would always see the sun's embrace.
With shadows that crawled after the morphing shape of her limbs, lingering figures that never caught Mirásol because they were afraid of the shimmering sap that engulfed her,
Mirásol would always see the sun's protection.
But whenever it came time for the bottom of the earth to sob shards of jade,
The sun would never look back at Mirásol.