The light played tricks on my bed—
I imagined a fairy tale in which the fox lived
But many others fell dead,
Or were entranced in another part of the story
And the grandmother wasn’t even sorry.
The window pane was covered in frost
While the roses by the fireplace grew—
The voices in the room seemed to know about you.
I didn’t write this—
I promised millions of children
Gold if they voted for me
And you are—racist if you will not pay—do you see?
My imagination became wild.
I wrote poems for the frightened child
When no one was looking—it wasn’t me
Who came into a fortune and described the large city
As a bastion of influence and graft.
They saw the truth running. The girl with the knife laughed.
Years have passed. You probably expected me to call.
I had to do important stuff—that’s all.
The light played tricks on my bed.
I wanted to call you—
I played with my face, instead.