They've killed the rat that lived alone
By the container where they piled old chairs,
Bent rusty lamps and carpets, all moth-eaten.
So they have finally exterminated her.
As I took off in the early hours
I saw her body right there in the puddle,
Or rather stretched along it like a boat
With oars lifted.
There she was, and the puddle that had served
Her as a mirror glowed and did not reflect
Her muzzle and whiskers, but the usual world
Of these dull backyards.
Now, my friend, you won't scare us,
Suddenly dashing across the path before the walker,
But, can I say, you still have the same bright eyes
And your wet fur glistens like Russian silver.