Upon this memory
my wishes deserve this spoon
of silence and regret
that is one landscape
of centuries transition.
Mine solitude figure
arise beneath this memory
that’s myself condition
non fruition of sense and time
eat from my distortioned tongue,
that is my memory of nothing
and is the backyard of songs
into tradition of noisy lakes
and spoken souls, incoming tale
of those wishes talked.
Inner this motion constrict this heading
to the ground of sunsets.
This memory is abruptly high
and deeper than the flesh and the blood
and the ashes of my cigar and the melody
of myself being one kind of dictator
shaping names and contexts and wishes again
until the last second, the last day, the last word
and meaning recall here, on this memory
where I spoke a kind of selfish poem,
this tiny scroll that picks up my story.
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