Fernando, Fernando, forgive

my shoulder so cruelly turned

against the cold you feel.

Bogotá´s rain turns the knife

in your gut, stranger

to all besides the odd bit of bread.

I, once friend, passed turned coat

on seeing you sheltered in

your soaking sweater, arms

drawn in like a tortoise

creeping towards extinction.

Too late when I turned back

with my surplus

jacket for warmth.  The rain

had already dissolved you

into thick, polluted air.

Fernando, forgive

this young man for years

turning old.  I hurried past

like a parable

but am tired of living

bad biblical stories.

If you can spare a time

of prayer before bedding

down on your cardboard,

please beg God

to turn my stones

into working, vital organs.