My dove is crying on the ledge of a beige house.
There, behind the curtains, a couple is dining
with potatoes and meat; and there is no more
that knight of the excellent taste,
he’s just died, and a sad cure
said a speech and posted on Facebook.
He will not climb up the wall, will not jump
on the table, crushing their cheap plates,
will not offer them sea bass in herbs
or at least some brie and Roquefort.
He is now in that jasmine garden
where the other guard of fine taste
sleeps under the Sphinx,
covered with a thousand kisses.