Who can picture
Calvin, Pascal or Nietzsche
as a pink chubby boy?
Knowing that God knew
that what she really liked best
was not the stable
but the crowded inn, she built
a fine hospice for pilgrims.
Lonely he may be
but, each time he bolts his door
the last thing at night,
his heart rejoices: “No one
can interfere with me now.”
How could he help him?
Miserable youth! in flight
from a non-father,
an incoherent mother,
in pursuit of — what?
Few can remember
clearly when innocence came
to a sudden end,
the moment at which we ask
for the first time: Am I loved?