A poem for a pussy.

White pussy, spotless pussy,
I ask you, in these lines,
What secret lies in your green eyes,
What a sarcasm under your mustache.

You are eyeing us, thinking in a low voice
Let our pale foreheads, our lips
Disappeared in wild fevers,
That our hollow eyes are not worth

Your muzzle that your nose finishes,
Pink as a breast button,
Your ears whose drawing
Crown your face proudly.

Why this serenity?
Would you have the key to problems?
Who make us, shivering and pale,
Skip Spring and Summer?

Faced with the death that threatens us,
Cats and people, your flair, more subtle
That our knowledge, he tells you
Where is the beauty that disappears,

Where does the thought go, where go
The dead fleshly splendor?
Pussy, turn away your pupils;
I find too much black at the bottom.

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