You’ll never interrupt me again
when commenting on a passage of Francisco Suárez’ de Legibus,
but, for the time being, the brown cloud that presses on
your chest is suffocating my voice.
Our laws are not enough to appease every vice
and the worst of all is to cry for you
not being able to tell you, according to Castro, to Suárez,
that no power can belong to a single man
even to one with hands like yours
able to turn my eyes inside out.
Your pact, if it concerns me at all, arrived invisibly,
insipidly streaming between doors, never rekindling
the rough thread that managed to tie us together, man to man.
It must be due to the blood, surely,
which stresses the intellectual side of the matter,
just like in poetry, you must agree, although
we never ventured, between the two of us,
more than a couple of misunderstandings a propos.
It’s a shame you can’t see your own marbled face.
You are almost endearing,
smiling like us all, abandoned.