For Simone
Poor little helpless baby chick,
leaning against the thrash can,
at ease in a coat of sheer luxury,
derived from a secret sable fur,
finer
than human ski
High up, the clouds
are becoming the color
of the yellow of your softnes
The evening turned the morning lat
Your little eyes still open
want my hands
touching the back of your feather
They want me to be a small boy,
a small boy offering my innocence
to the little child that chirps inside yo
Sweet was your tameness
bent over a defeated rose,
while you rested your eternity
on a bouquet of roses, despised
because withere
But under you each petal bleeded,
leaving a stain of wine
in the rniddle of your bell
I then passed by,
you were already dead when I passed by
enamored of the sunset,
oblivious of the morning
that was rising in your little eye
