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.
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