Confetti
Flies in the air,
among the laughter of
masked people.
The cold wind
of February
softly
blows
on the corpse
of King Carnival,
and while
the others cheerfully
celebrate
there are those who cry bitter tears
for the lost time.
The smoke of the stake,
rises to the sky
where the joys
of this moment
burn in the flames
and the ashes
falls to earth,
like a seed
during the sowing.
Poem (C): Me
“The Funeral of Shelley” (C): Louis Edouard Fournier
