<p><br></p><p><br></p><p>¿Un tonto? ¿O un amante?</p><p><br></p><p>Fallen, breathless, at his feet—</p><p>I have loved, oh, how I have loved!</p><p>A mere mortal, yet unreal in his being,</p><p>too perfect to be flesh and bone.</p><p>Fiction or fate? Tell me, stars,</p><p>what trick of light conjured him?</p><p><br></p><p>Oh, my wordless words,</p><p>those silences trapped between my ribs—</p><p>they rise, they tremble, they perish,</p><p>a whisper lost before birth.</p><p>Shall I speak? Shall I stay?</p><p>Shameless, I unravel before him,</p><p>a mind in fragments, a heart in bloom.</p><p><br></p><p>Scattered—yes, but isn't chaos divine?</p><p>A melody unmeasured, a harmony untamed.</p><p>Poetic? Perhaps—</p><p>yet I lost my rhythm the day he arrived,</p><p>took to a beat I swore I’d never follow.</p><p>Still, I ask:</p><p>¿Un amante? ¿O un tonto?</p><p>Or is it I who wears the fool’s crown,</p><p>mad in devotion to this fragile god?</p><p><br></p><p>Once, these lips dared proclaim:</p><p>"El amor es una mentira."</p><p>A farce! A fleeting myth!</p><p>And yet, here they part,</p><p>spilling verses I once mocked,</p><p>offering up hymns to his name.</p><p><br></p><p>He—my heresy, my altar, my undoing.</p><p>He who wields the wand to my dance,</p><p>who shapes the rhythm of my ruin.</p><p>He, the perfect lie I long to believe,</p><p>the fiction I yearn to make real.</p><p><br></p><p>So let me be the fool—</p><p>if fool I must be,</p><p>let me be his.</p>
¿Un tonto? ¿O un amante?
By
Dolapo Oludairo
•
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