The pink
Is riding the ochre
The pink is a saint
We know this by the halo
He’s also a juggler
And even if his clubs
Fall
They never reach the ground
Just like him
The drawing lines
Try to be
A judge
A piano
A horse
A boat in Venice
To make the people laugh
Going forward
He looks at us
The watchers in the air
Who know
That nothing is happening
At all
And this is why
We laugh
Like children.
