They’ll write not about me at all.
They need an image of their own.
They’ll turn the bright into dark,
Inflate the plot of events.

OR they’ll hide the facts,
Paint in what is not there,
And tomorrow will come to meet
A crown, a bag, or a prison.

And at the parade of life,
However fiercely I resist,
They’ll decide at a meeting
My place amid the quarrels.
So who am I really?
A little cloud in different projections.