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Who are you calling cunning?

Me?

No, my friend.

I am not cunning.

I am wounded.

Wounded.

You came to me

wearing the face of friendship,

speaking softly,

smiling kindly,

but your love had a beak.

Pointed.

Selfish.

And little by little,

you pecked at me.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Until there was hardly a place

inside me

that did not hurt.

And now

you stand there

and call me cunning?

No.

The day you truly understand this world,

the day life takes you

through enough roads,

enough betrayals,

enough nights

when nobody comes,

you may meet me again.

Somewhere.

On some ordinary road.

And maybe

that will be

the luckiest moment

of your life.

Because you will look at me,

really look at me,

and you will fold your hands.

You will lower your voice.

And you will say,

My friend,

you were never cunning.

You were the lucky one.

Lucky

because you survived.

Lucky

because you endured everything

the world threw at you

and still

you did not become

what hurt you.

Outside,

you kept walking.

Inside,

you were wounded.

Deep inside,

wounded.

And then

you will say,

Forgive me.

Because maybe

I was the cunning one.

Maybe

I was wounded too.

Maybe that is why

I could never recognise

what was standing

right in front of me.

A friend.

A real friend.

Someone I should have understood.

Someone I should have protected.

Someone I lost

because I was too sightless

to recognise him.

My friend,

you were never cunning.

I simply

never knew

how wounded

you were.