Styx nebulas exhalat iners, umbraeque recentes
descendunt illac simulacraque functa sepulcris.
—Ovid
Three riverine cats were witness, nothing more,
of our obscure affair. The river still
repeats the words we whispered on the shore,
without a doubt against the river's will.
I hear the wicked waters ask: —What for?
Why did those feet offend the coast? To kill?
To perjure and corrupt? Or to restore
something we took and offered to the nil...
Only the waters know that day I learned
that afterglows could wane in human eyes
like purple ink that's bleeding in a pond.
Only the waters now remain concerned,
while we try to forget or to disguise.
Only the water speaks—we won't respond.