[A letter to Alejandro Benjazar.]

[Erudiche]

Alejandro,

We won't be seeing each other again. I don't think you'll mind that. Please look after my eels for me, someone must. I have found somewhere nice, somewhere far away from that place and its people and its blades and schemes. I think I might be happy.

I'm sorry. For everything.

In the end, I have betrayed you once again -- good luck with the seat. Perhaps you'll make more of it than I did.

Love,
D.

[Don Nadie]

[One last letter finds its way to some hovel, through bribery, deceit, intrigues, and one or two threats]

My dear friend,

I don't relish the knives on my back. Part of me wants you to die and rot. Part of me is a petty bitch. Instead of letting it hold the reins, I shall remember the good things we did achieve. Those children live because of us. Harm was prevented because of us. Mild consolations, but paupers can't be picky.

I am sorry you failed our hopes. Perhaps they were unrealistic.

I hope you will be happy. I hope you will let yourself.

I shall take care of the eels. You idiot.

Maybe you shall travel and find some of my Hidden Poems, in your new life. There will be a few you shall recognize, inspired by us. I'm sending you, for whatever it's worth, the last one of them.

Love,

Alejandro

A poem

ON THE BREAKING OF THINGS

Beloved things, through use made dear,
shined once so brightly their veneer.
As time goes forth, as they grow worn,
love holds what would elsewise be shorn.

A vase has cracks, a scarf is frayed,
a knife is now but rusted blade,
a teapot leaks, lovers unkind,
yet we can't leave any behind.

For one more age we hold to each,
stretch the limits of our reach.
Fingers that ache keep holding tight,
to feign love defeats Time's harsh spite.

One must surrender to the fact
that what remains is but an act:
an echo dear, a shadow's bluff,
but what's with us is not enough.

At last accepting it is so
with weary hands, we let it go...
Then, long into the night it rings:
the sadness of all broken things.

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