The head of a solitary flower
floating on the gutter's waters
was being carried towards the
open mouth of a storm-drain;
beauty under the sun
a few seconds away from
the sewer's darkness,
to add to its offensive stenches
a scent coming from the gardens;
down there, she didn't belong.

Like a white spot of innocence
traveling on dirty waves
of man's refusals among,
the delicate petals were raised
as to escape to be touched
by a drop, by any drop
carrying impure thoughts;
like she was trying to say
"I am a pristine flower,
down there, I don't belong"

Bending over I scooped it
from the open mouth
of the storm-drain...just before;
she rested on my fingers,
naked, withouth a stem
to be carried on:
tender, innocent, defenseless
like a kitten, that soft;
a flower going to the sewers...
she was not.