The poet came to the conclusion
that he lacked a good biography.
He was not a war hero, not even a child of war.
Communism also somehow missed him.
It is true that he accompanied Mr. Nothing in his exile,
but without unnecessary excesses, in the silence
of his shady nook full of unfinished books
and secretly obtained typewriters.
But then, in the midst of his tirade,
thoughtful Platocrates, setting down another white stone,
reached for a volume from a pile on his desk
and, leafing through, said,
“When the next time they ask for your name,
say it is Echecrates,
and that you were carrying the cup