My shadow is a fool whose feelings
are often hurt by his routine
of rising up behind his queen
to bump his silly head on ceilings.
His is a world of two dimensions,
that’s true, but flat jokes still can smart;
he longs to flaunt my court’s conventions
and drop a role he knows by heart.
The queen leans out above the sill,
the jester tumbles out for real:
thus they divide their actions; still,
it’s not a fifty-fifty deal.
My jester took on nothing less
than royal gestures’ shamelessness,
the things that I’m too weak to bear—
the cloak, crown, scepter, and the rest.
I’ll stay serene, won’t feel a thing,
yes, I will turn my head away
after I say goodbye, my king,
at railway station N., someday.
My king, it is the fool who’ll lie
across the tracks; the fool, not I.