Here another star, flung down,
confused with the dandruff of the jungle,
is turned into a pulp of blood and mud.
Over his extinguished hands
the kiss of the rain falls
and searches for asylum
within the flower that had already died.
No one will sing to him;
he will sleep with his dream
like a rotting leaf in the forest.
Who is my enemy?
Is it my brother, the one the "green-go"
set to dreaming with a mutilated alphabet?
There is no answer:
like the sawmill worker melted on the pulley
and he will never come back.