The poet is a feigner.
He feigns so completely
That he even feigns that he is suffering
The pains that he is really experiencing.
And those who read what he writers
As they read, sharply feel
Not his double pain, but their single one
And so, upon its toy tracks,
Runs around, diverting reason
The wound-up mechanical train
That goes by the name of heart.
Ernesto Guerra Da Cal