The poet was looking for a place to leave his words,
A place where the wind won’t carry them away,
A place where monsters won’t eat them.
If the cats are lovers of the moon, the night and roofs,
they would know how to appreciate a verse, the poet thought.
And almost whispering he told them: “This is how happiness was like:
brief as the dream of a felt acacia,
or the dance of the crazy single woman in front of a broken mirror”.