The Secret Spectre of the Drop

It is not always pain that the eye pours out,
But a crystal liquid upon the threshold,
Where light, daring and scattered about,
Reveals the world’s intimate bizzarria.

In the tenuous shell, transparent and round,
A minimum universe ignites,
Every gleam, in its turning around,
A silent rainbow now extends its rights.

It is an ephemeral cathedral of iris,
Built by the flash of a single beat,
Which upon the face, in silence, disguises,
And only the heart keeps its sweet conceit.