Little months little smokes. and oblivion in a wool dress. in a door opens tenderly. near a wall where the wind is born. near the jolly garden. where saints and angels. are afraid of the seasons. the alleys have no names. they are the hours or the years. I stroll leisurely. dressed in a cement overcoat. and a hat of black straw. I don't remember. if it's nice out. I walk smoking. and I smoke walking. easily. every once in a while I tell myself. it's time to stop. and I continue walking. I tell myself. I have to get some air. I have to look at the clouds. and breathe in a lung full. I have to see the flies fly. and take a little exercise. I shouldn't smoke so much. I tell myself also. calculate. I tell myself again. I have a headache. my life is a drop of water on my eyelid. and I'm no longer twenty. continue. the songs are songs. and the days days. I no longer have one shred of respect for myself. but I see no hoodlums. who smoke the same cigarettes as me. and who are just as stupid as me. I'm pretty content. without really knowing why. it doesn't suffice to speak of the sun. the stars. the sea and rivers. blood eyes hands. it is necessary quite often. to speak of other things. we know that there are very beautiful countries. with very handsome men. with no less charming women. but all that isn't really sufficient. but dizzying void. which rings and bays. makes the head bow. we look and we see. again many other things. which are always the same. innumerable. identical. and over there simply. someone goes by. simple as hello. and everything starts all over once again. I read in the stars the good will of my friends. in a river I love one hand. I listen the flowers sing. there are the goodbyes of birds. a cry falls like a fruit. my God my God. I will be accordingly always the same. my head in my hands.