Bobó is dead, but don't take off your hat.
You can't explain why there's no consolation.
We cannot pin a butterfly upon the Admiralty spire -- we'd only crush it.
The squares of windows no matter where one looks on every side.
And as reply to `what happened?' you open up an empty can: `Apparently, this did.' Bobó is dead.
Wednesday ends.
On streets devoid of spots to spend the night it's white, so white.
Only the black water in the night river does not retain the snow.
Bobó is dead -- a line containing grief.
The squares of windows, archways' semicircle.
Such freezing frost that if one's to be killed, then let it be from firearms.
Farewell,
Bobó, my beautiful Bobó.
My tear would suit sliced cheese.
We are too frail to follow after you, nor are we strong enough to stay in place.
In heat-waves and in devastating cold I know beforehand, your image will not diminish -- but quite to the contrary -- in Rossi's inimitable prospect.
Bobó is dead.
This is a feeling which can be shared, but slippery like soap.
Today I dreamed that I was lying upon my bed.
And so it was in fact.
Tear off a page, correct the date: the list of losses opens with a zero.
Dreams without Bobó suggest reality.
A square of air comes in the window vent.
Bobó is dead.
And, one's lips somewhat apart, one wants to say `it shouldn't be'.
No doubt it's emptiness that follows death.
Both far more probable, and worse than Hell.
You were everything.
But because you are dead now, my Bobó, you have become nothing -- more precisely, a glob of emptiness.
Which, if one considers it, is quite a lot.
Bobó is dead.
On rounded eyes the sight of the horizon is like a knife, but neither Kiki nor Zaza,
Bobó, will take your place.
That is impossible.
Thursday is coming.
I believe in emptiness.
It's quite like Hell there, only shittier.
And the new Dante bends toward the page, and on an empty spot he sets a word.
