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  and my hands in my head