During the summer evenings when the public parks

           shut down

baby girls and their nannies return home

while some younger girls have already fallen asleep

           in their strollers

and the silent invisible procession of dead girls comes

           behind them

pale girls with undone hair holding their dry flower bouquets

in their tied hands like short poems that

never learned to recite from their hearts.

They stand and from afar observe the ribbons and toys hanging

            at the kiosks,

the fully lit humble display window of the local store

leaving behind each of their steps an internal space that is

            automatically filled

by a purple rosy shadow. They reach just outside

            their homes

and they look inside their closed windows;

suddenly they raise their hands but they don’t knock at the

            shutter. Their parents,

inside the house hear the knock; they let their napkin fall

            off the table

as if a large dry leaf falls in time. They open the door.

No one is there. They only see

the faded stars, the forlorn sky, the forlorn world and

they close the door again; they go back to their children.