Swept

This is a story of young mosquito, YM
call him Young
or like his enemy do, call him M

M is relaxing on the stick of a broom
in front of my room

The floor I look at
feel I need to sweep it
dirty it is, that's why

not aware of the presence M
I take the broom
to the bones, it startles M

as you can see
petit, almost black he is
him I can hardly notice

he flies, above the floor, 70 cm
now I am aware of him

He flaps lacey, untrained wings
he's doing maneuvres
in short flight
and returns, landing on the stick upright

as you can see
that's Y!
he's doing mimicry
that's why
him I can hadly see

Petit, almost black he is
his lacelike wings make me smile
for they're tiny, fragile

I decide to hit M
then hum the Requiem