Antonio Roberval Miketen


It is Late to be Morning

For Simone

Poor little helpless baby chick, leaning against the thrash can, at ease in a coat of sheer luxury, derived from a secret sable fur, finer than human skin. High up, the clouds are becoming the color of the yellow of your softness. The evening turned the morning late. Your little eyes still open want my hands touching the back of your feathers. They want me to be a small boy, a small boy offering my innocence to the little child that chirps inside you. Sweet was your tameness bent over a defeated rose, while you rested your eternity on a bouquet of roses, despised because withered. But under you each petal bleeded, leaving a stain of wine in the rniddle of your belly. I then passed by, you were already dead when I passed by enamored of the sunset, oblivious of the morning that was rising in your little eyes.
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