There was a possibility,
moment of truth was there.
Fear had retreated after interrogation,
it had displaced the malice.
His innocence was a book of
unhappiness, a pedagogical escape;
and he died in advance before
the pursuit of consciousness.
The myth always ruled and
gossip was more convincing.
An eagle swooped at dusk
to pick up a mocking dove.
He moved in hot corridors of secrets
without looking at the abandoned coins.
Poverty always followed him like
a shadow, a queasy reminder of a falling star.