On the side street, where the poet
took his nightly walk, shots resonated,
yelling, and a car driving fast;
on the pavement a man´s blood
was running into the gutter.
The police asked what he had seen?
Nothing!
You must have seen something?
I saw a waterfall running down
a mountainside in spring and
the air was pure.
Gangland murder?
Weeks later an envelope in his
postbox, five thousand dollars.
The poet smiled, at last someone
had paid him for his poetry!
