He was the fairest man among us, bearing the clear irises and the dark deep pupils, where all

our secrets could be drowned and all our fevers could be cooled.

He was the finest man among us. He dared to speak out in the market and at the temple. He

bothered the concubines of the legislators; he snatched the purses of the tax collectors.

He was the most daring man in our neighbourhood. After accomplishing his feats a price was put on his

head, and posters with that head and its price were posted on the walls. He was run out of the city, with guns and with dogs.

He was the hardest man among us. He bore the cold and the wind, the early rain and the sun as

melted gold. He was almost skin and bone now: the peasants who came from the mountains to sell

at the market told us.

He was the loneliest man on earth. His words were not heard by anyone. It seemed he his destiny was set by

the ray of the fates as he was born. Even the elements of his face were eager to fly from our attention. Some among us even said he never existed.

He died as a dog, the miserable, the doubly cursed. When they came asking for him we had already forgotten him. When they asked what he said to us, we discovered he’d always spoken a foreign language.