Over the city

When at night the streets thirstily drink up thousands of noises, the moon rises and it becomes chilly. Cold currents wash the beaches. And the month, like a bird's wing, the sky, the starry one, paddles on, and each of the stars is a pupil, hiding its imprint in the sea. Thinking of the stars as fish, it swings them like ships of gold, the waves take them in their hands and hide them in their immensity.