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He walks slowly,
his heart stitched into his jacket,
buttons for forgetting,
and a fur collar to hush the storms.

His gaze seeks nothing,
not even a star.
He slides across the parquet
as one slips into a rain-soaked dream.

He no longer cries—
tears have carved a cellar,
where illusions still swim
without surface, without shore, without expectation.

Pierrot does not hope,
but he remains standing.
And that,
already, is an act of poetry.

“Pierrot does not flee the stage.
He performs in silence, in the shadow of the inner theatre.
His sadness is not a weakness,
but an act of presence.”