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 skin.

					High up, the clouds 

					are becoming the color 

					of the yellow of your softness.  

					The evening turned the morning late.  

					Your little eyes still open

					want my hands

					touching the back of your feathers.  

					They want me to be a small boy, 

					a small boy offering my innocence 

					to the little child that chirps inside you.  

					Sweet was your tameness 

					bent over a defeated rose, 

					while you rested your eternity 

					on a bouquet of roses, despised 

					because withered.

					But under you each petal bleeded, 

					leaving a stain of wine 

					in the rniddle of your belly.

					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 eyes.