Subtracting

On a bench in a square in Prague, the Maestro of the coorte writes another deep poem

Warm,
the first sun of June
under which
waiting

Still beautiful
the quite square
into which
resting

closed eyes, white skirts
flying
not seeing

but it will not be that to bother me
as much as rather the multiplicity,
the too-muchity, the excessive number

I go away,
subtracting me