There are squares that recount no stories;
they prefer to spend their time recalling
that nothing ever happened in them except, maybe —
that girl who dropped her ice cream;
the boy determined to grab a pigeon;
the first date of a couple who later broke up.
The rain falling ardently each September;
the January snow and the August sun.
Squares which never saw blood or tears
except, maybe, of the poet sitting at the corner.