INSIDE
I’ve lived long enough to bury many. I think about them more and more often. Every time it stuns me to take it in: They are gone and they are not returning. All of them that remains lies inside me And in a few others fast disappearing, too.Just think how fragile our memories are, How fickle the devices we use to store them, How wretchedly future interpretations Will mangle and misconstrue their meanings.
I tell their stories trying to be fairBut find I forget even their facesLet alone their truth, what they knew to be so, Lost forever in the mire of mindlessness Amid the serpents which strangle the voice Before it cries out why have you betrayed me?If we hear these cries, we must weep ourselvesOr cement our ears with the serpents’ wasteSo that we never hear another cryEspecially the homeless alien inside.


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