I am a bit bitter, life has been cruel to me, since I can recall
always, callous, always distant, so alone,
distant and wounded
almost, as if, my birth were a crime, never foretold
why ? So many and few or never
an answer, but the frail whispers
of men wrinkled, but worn as old whores, the warmth, the
eyes have grown
old and I no longer see, that little happy boy.
