It became our ruin.
We cut into it like a wheel of cheese.
Ate it as if it were made of brie.
And it went down velvety smooth
as a glass of dry vermouth.

After everything was considered
we took it all.
Didn’t leave a sliver.
Poor wretched beings,
having hearts boiled like beans in the stew.

Who knew it could happen to us?
After all the fuss and laboring
of what was
we have nothing to show for it,
except the rind from the transit.