3 Short Takes on Shakespeare
You returned to the scene of a crime
to find no blood, so I bequeath you
red roses for your self-slaughter;
I confess to having memorised your lines,
signing them with my feelings –
I tried for three years to be like you,
but to be is not enough.
A king reduced to a fool,
or a fool who thought he was king,
I take you as you are
and pluck hyssops from the hill;
there are those who etch their lives on a stone
but your last sigh
brews thunder in my mind.
Hemlock for you, for to speak frankly,
your exile is my colonialism.
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