On January Third

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.