i. Hamlet

You returned to the scene of a crime
to find no blood, so I bequeath you 
red roses for your self-slaughter; 
I confess to having memorised your lines,
signing them with my feelings – 
I tried for three years to be like you,
but to be is not enough. 

ii. Lear

A king reduced to a fool, 
or a fool who thought he was king,
I take you as you are
and pluck hyssops from the hill;
there are those who etch their lives on a stone
but your last sigh 
brews thunder in my mind. 

iii. Prospero

Hemlock for you, for to speak frankly, 
your exile is my colonialism.