All stories, as they reach their end, are sad.
The rain comes; the night falls; Malone dies alone.
He ponders composing an ode
to his long time sidekick Death, but as his
own departure draws near their friendship
has grown problematic.
To neither did I say how much
I loved them, nor express the extent of my fear.
Their bodies are delicate glass boxes
at which the world begins to fling its stones.
He is gone now, the blind man, tidily dressed
in a suit of dust, with a dusty tie and dark glasses,
who played the clarinet on Paseo Huerfanos,
the paseo of the orphanage…
And he had imagined sitting in the evening
with his friend the Devil watching the small
human creatures frolic in the grass. They would
be like children, good natured and always singing.
When had he realized his mistake?
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