The Farce

When I stood next to the chesterfield sofa to wait for your family,

unaware of all the lies and contradictions you concealed inside that lavish purse,

I was only a child, smiling, shyly,

a little boy who still believed in Santa Claus.

When you disrespected your husband before my eyes,

for your inability to love him more than you idolize his money,

I was only a child, grinning, guardedly,

a little boy whose expression didn’t belong to that face.

When your husband tempted you with his only treasure,

And you jumped into the limo without second thoughts,

I was only a child, running around, foolishly,

A little boy unaware of the game of life.

When your darling made his fabricated speeches,

and you could feel much better with yourself,

I was only a child, staring at the ground, selfless,

a little boy unaware of the mud of megalomania.

When you sat on the red armchair pretending anxiety and carefulness,

and you lectured your parents about your delusions,

I was only a child, looking through the window, detached,

a little boy playing with toys in the real world.

When your mother was in the hospital rehearsing death and murmuring for help,

and you came with a character not a soul,

I was only a child, warmhearted, wailing,

a little boy who had no experience facing death.

When the truth spoke louder and your purse was forced open,

dropping the masks that hid the smuggled gold,

I was no longer a child composing answers,

but an adult stepping onto the wreckages of a farce.