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.