So ended our story: the villain fled,
The treasure not found, our hideout destroyed,
The contracts made formally null and void,
The miracle just a lie, our dog dead.
We ran, we cried, we worked hard, and we fought,
But for what? "At least, it was fun," we thought.

We summoned a demon and spent a day
Sipping hot tea and discussing politics,
Philosophy, life, and other topics
With him. He suggested we disobey
Established procedures. "Forget the rules
And correct answers. Those things are for fools."

"Well, that's a demoniac thing to say,
But how about success? We want success.
We achieve nothing while stuck in this mess,"
I asked. His answer: "All work and no play
Makes success flavourless, or even sour.
Know that what you need is not just power.

"Just lie in the sun and call it a win.
Don't let others trick you into thinking
You must be a loser if not the king.
You want success, but she is failure's twin
And people often can't tell which is which.
And life is not all about getting rich."

"Sorry, demon," I said, "I don't get it.
You sound like a stuck-up self-help guru,
Someone apt to quote Rumi or Du Fu
Without explaining context or merit.
So, begone!" We did not use any spell:
We physically drove him back to hell.

Autumnal days were almost at an end;
We noticed the winds were getting colder
And people around us getting older.
M, an awkward guy who was T's best friend,
Came up with the idea that we should
Submit some photographs of our childhood

To an art competition as a book
Of visual art. We held a ballot
And decided we would. But it did not
Win any prize whatever, though it took
Only two days to make. Not a big deal,
But a shared feeling of failure was real.

T got a job in a big company;
To live with his parents S went back home;
M was diagnosed with Asperger syndrome,
But he nonetheless managed to marry
Some rich girl none of us ever heard of.
"It's not money," said he, "It's about love."

Being left, we felt as if we had missed
All the opportunities we had had
In our brief youth. Disappointed and sad,
We lay on the riverbank. We were pissed,
Remembering all those adventures where
We had played heroes. You muttered, "I swear,

"I still love my life. Thank God I was born."
And you killed yourself. Immediately,
I called an ambulance. I tried to be
Calm but could not; was not prepared to mourn
The death of my de facto best friend yet.
My life got as hopeless as it could get.

After the funeral, we at a bar
Gathered and talked. And we all got wasted.
Something about life that we had tasted
Made us less innocent. "And now we are,"
Said T, "What we didn't want to become."
We said bye before the dawn, and went home.