After the trial your death came, the second death, the one that was not.
Years of lies and nonsense reduced my patience.
That night I had been accused and you on your throne had accepted everything against me.
You, judge and king without power.
Slowly you went to your bed and lied on there looking to the sky; we knew, you were dying.
You said you were sweating cold and your lips were dry,
blah, blah, blah,
you dropped your hands, stopped breathing, and closed your eyes.
I didn’t want to permit that, I asked you not to do it.
That night I hated you and hated your theater.
I climbed unto your bed, I sat on your chest and I shouted again,
I called you by your title and by your name: Father! Federico!
Then I attacked you, I slapped your face.
I had a plan:
if you were dead you wouldn’t react, if you were acting again then I was there to make it clear to everybody.
Your red cheeks hurt you, so, you reacted,
your hand stops my hand, and you tell me that you are fine ...
Don’t you see it? I was right!
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