Like a king
with legitimate
and bastard offspring,
pairings endowed
with degrees
of recognition,

He hedges his bets;
those who inherit
the
official functions
not always
his favourites.

We exist
in relation to power
even if
we choose exile,
a new name,
renounce all claims;

It cannot help but define us.

Never a source
of much warmth,
he divided
in order to rule;
factions
he kept strange,

The competition,
whispering
his disappointment,
he the victim
of intrigues,
a simple man

Who only wanted
to get on,
the one
taking you
into
his confidence.

In fact, he
played us off
like any Mob boss,
with his lieutenants,
his women,
accepting the upsets

as a sort of tribute, his due.

As the end
drew near,
he slept
in his throne,
more than ever
alone,

As if
his stratagems
had ceased
to interest him,
and from
the forfeited game

The pieces
sought
final audience,
leave
to kiss
his cold hand.