The poor poem

I wrote a horrible poem!

Of course he wanted to say something...

But what?

Would you be choking?

In his half-words there was, however, a gentle tenderness like that seen in the eyes of a sick child, a precocious, incomprehensible gravity.

of whom, without reading the newspapers,

knew about the kidnappings

of those who die without fault

of those who go astray because all paths are taken...

Poem, damned little boy,

it was clear that he was neither of this world nor for this world...

Then, seized with a senseless hatred,

that hatred that drives men mad in the face of the unbearable

Indeed, I tore him into a thousand pieces.

And I breathed...

Also! who said he was born in the wrong world?