‘This woman does not exist’
- it said –
‘Her no-name is written all over my feathers
On the smallest of my scales
On the length of my hairs
- Plus, she’s mocking the weather
No eye of the storm
When she sits at the back of her bed
Counting the beads, counting the days and your sibylline smiles
She will never appear from under your sheets
Or behind your curtains
- Not a tragic figure of vernacular poems
Well, she may rest among your table objects when it’s night and it’s over

If I may say so, she’s not much of a talker
Yet quietly slips her arm in the doorways
But nah, there is no chance that you may ever meet her,
No matter how often she scribbles her prayers
On alleys, on cobbles, on church doors or her shoelaces’
- The never-seen mythical creature presumptuously said or maybe lied
And poised its head on its tether