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