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Read a few of those stories of 
Guy de Maupassant today (On January third.)
One of them was called “The Parrot”, 
Where a tortured woman killed a bird.
These days I barely go outside, 
It is a very difficult fact for me and the little ones.
Although there is no white snowfall in Edinburg, like Chicago. 
This city never does.
I happened to learn a new thing from Maupassant,  
As in one of  his stories, where
A cup of Coffee was smoking on a person’s table. 
I found it quite interesting, there.
Actually most of the time, 
I feel a similar situation for day to day tiny moments, 
My morning cereal talks to me while I yawn 
And the same goes for others
We all utter with a tired voice, 
Okay, when will be our next meal then, after….?
And I assure others, with a dried smile, a gesture 
That only they will decipher.
My lonely strange nights are still very talkative, 
Reminds me of a rather silly story
And Nightly sky still sounds like a sea- confined 
In a tiny shell, in an awakened diary.

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