sometimes when we were in your bed, knee-deep
you would tell me the story, a cigarette after which you fall asleep
this is the story of how you died for the first time
it was before the revolt that became the revolution
you were young, stupid, reckless, anarchist, populist
you thought that everything had a neat solution
for that you were hanged, a rope covered in grime
a simple execution
in front of your mother, your village covered in mist
(you could hear only the rustle of the sheep)
the mist that would become the smoke that would make you weep
that would burn your lungs, and at this point in the story we normally kissed
until only half of you was human, and the other half was mine
maybe in another life we will exist
and i will remember to ask you your sign