God, I know I am your favorite toy.
The one you hide from yourself,
so that, if by play or by chance you find it again,
you can bathe it all
with the gold of your smile.
But, if one day I grow tired
of praying to ears that appear to be
indifferent to getting this twisted world fixed,
and I start ignoring you like a broken doll
which cannot either speak or listen,
I guess you will take me out with your beaming fingers
from the shadow where I quietly lingered.
And then the oldest brat
will whisper in my ears his secret:
he will prevent me from telling his parents but
the whole world once belonged to him
and yet he has changed it for the treat
of one single poem.
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