Anomaly

I don't walk.
I don't even walk.
I've nothing.
Not at all.

Not very happy, not sad.
as so many people,
will seem insensitive to all
that it could to happen next to you.
every day.

She will walk equal streets
the same ones
shades will look at her to happen.

There will be none
capable of distinguishing from others,
this way, at first sight.

Every day
she is dying a little
(it does not receive communion
with this sad wheel of mill
of the modern mystique;
the work,routine and vulgar —
well she understands
the brutish and it annuls).

And what remedy
it stays,
and what remedy...
but I know that she keeps
intact this freshness and delicacy
of the ardent heart and the innate one,
young curiosity.

Will be alone,
since alone are those who, of a way
or other, they are perhaps different.
she will not suspect
there was one evening
in that a poem was dictating me.