The little prince

The little prince sat down to rest under the moon. The beginning of dawn was visible
from the edge of his satchel, tied with a silk string to the black feather of a crow. His
heavy eyelids could not resist the murmur of the faraway moon, the airs dim light, the
aroma of his memories, and they closed, slowly, over eyes as blue as life. The magic
satchel slipped from his open hand, and over the grass rolled dawn, the feather, the
string, his mothers invisible smile, and the colors of the world, each one adhered to an
infinite spiral bearing its name. Some drops of blood fell as well, like ice cubes, and the
ground gratefully received the sacred seeds of the eleven thousand souls of his people.
Inside his satchel remained the river from the beginning of time, and the golden braid of
an imaginary centaur. The little prince slept, without feeling his hands, without feeling
the pain of death seizing his tiny naked feet. The little prince wandered in his memory
through the fields of his land, and between hunger and tuberculosis, he gathered souls.
The little prince caressed the ashen, marble face of his mother, and he kissed her cheeks,
her forehead, her lips. The little prince walked between the stars in search of life. The
little prince spoke to the forest creatures and got lost among the weeds of the universe.
The little prince played with the tundra fairies, and he drifted among unknown worlds on
a silver vessel, removing bits of color with a miniature brush from the walls of dreams.
The little prince wore his sacred tunic and icy dewdrops fell from his hair on cold
mornings. The little prince held on to the wings of butterflies, and drank with them from
the pollen of flowers and their nectar. The little prince danced in his sleep, and evil
death raised him in her colossal arms as far as the heavens, as far as the end of heaven,
and let him fall, amidst silent laughter, between sneers of hatred, over the sea. The little
prince and his closed eyes dreamt with water, with fish, with the infinite darkness at the
frozen bottom of the ocean. From his satchel dawn slipped out, enveloping the world.
The cubes of blood, wet and salty, sprinkled the sacred seeds of the eleven thousand
souls. The wing of a crow brushed against the moist face of the little prince, who never
woke again (until this morning, when he kissed me).