He walked the corridors of Whitehall, silent and grim,
The heavy velvet of the state, a second skin to him.
A seat at the table, a name etched in oak,
He mistook for a kingdom the mere words that he spoke.
They cling to the gavel, they clutch at the light,
Defying the onset of the inevitable night.
In boardrooms of granite, in houses of stone,
They fear the cold silence of standing alone.
To "relinquish" is treason to a mind drunk on height,
Yet the tide cares for no one, despite all their might.
An empire of shadows, a throne made of air,
For the man who refuses to leave the tall chair.
Lay down the burden, the crown is but lead,
The world will keep spinning with another instead.
For greatness is measured, when all鈥檚 said and done,
By the grace of the exit... under the setting sun.
I would like to invite my poet friend 
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Se le peg贸 el cuero del sill贸n a la espalda,
se le olvid贸 que el puesto es prestado, no es herencia.
Lleg贸 pidiendo pista, con la frente en alto,
y ahora se atornilla, perdiendo la decencia.
Se cree el "patr贸n", el "caudillo", el "imprescindible",
mira desde el piso veinte como si fuera un dios,
pero el reloj no entiende de egos ni de rangos,
y el tiempo, ese viejo sabio, ya le dio el adi贸s.
隆Qu茅 mala ma帽a esa de no querer soltar!
De creer que la empresa, el pa铆s o la casa,
se hunden en el fango si 茅l no est谩 al volante,
mientras la vida misma, frente a sus ojos, pasa.
Ceda el paso, compadre, que la gloria es un ratico,
no sea el fantasma que deambula en el pasillo.
Que el que no sabe irse cuando la fiesta acaba,
termina siendo el polvo... y no el brillo.
Me gustar铆a invitar a mi amiga poeta 
