Oh, I knew Saint Francis well, we practically grew up together,
the handsome French prince and me, sad young smoker.

The boys and girls alike, they said: we can when we want to,
we can always do it, but a greyhound caught up with them and bit them

bit them until they admitted they really wanted something wild.

The shorebirds walked along with him
he really had a gift with those creatures.

And the bite wound told them: young smoker, celebrate your body.
Admit that you take pleasure in it: the privileges of your new life

a sky with a system of coordinates and a high point in the landscape
from which to take it all in.

But the shame, dog, which made everything possible
makes brothers of us all.

Smoke on, why so sad?
Why so sad?