The poet, like the historian,
falsifies the facts to such an extent,
that he ends up being good the bad
and the good is despicable.
Maybe at Waterloo they were defeated
a woman and a man, defeated in their sex,
his hug, his word and his silence,
but to the poet, as to the historian, the fact
It seems little to them and they talk there about Napoleon
and the end of the People's Revolution:
perhaps an army is more poetic
than a love story.
There is no bone of history
how there is no bone of poetry,
just the cartilage of the word
creating gold, the century, fate and fallacy.