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When alive,
memory is the most timeless
piece of paper;
it’s invisible to the eye,
like the wind that sways a tree;
it doesn’t fade like stone,
or burn like parchment.
Memory has written
thousands of blank books—
all with enticing covers;
it doesn’t mind
screaming in libraries,
and has learned every language,
except its own.
Memory is monogamous,
but it’s been divorced
in every country.
Memory can build an igloo,
and walk barefoot on fire;
it has found water in the desert,
and caught sunshine in the Arctic.
No graveyard can bury memory;
no preacher dares
deliver its eulogy;
no saint boasts
about carrying its burden;
no tyrant believes
he can escape from its sight.
Memory gets younger
as it gets older;
children care as much about their past,
as old people care about their future.
If memory ended with “I,”
the world would remember no one,
but this wouldn’t be so bad.
Why? Because it always ends up asking why.
Why should I care?
Why should I remember you?
Why should you enter the history books?
No one has ever stayed 21
for more than a year,
because memory always
accepts the invitation of time,
and it never forgets to come,
even when it hasn’t been invited.
Memory itself doesn’t like uninvited guests,
especially when death visits
for the first and last time;
when memory begs
for it to return another day,
or at least stay a little longer,
it refuses, saying it’s time to go.
In times of thirst,
memory is the salt
in the ocean.
In times of hunger,
memory is a sea
of bland food.
In times of plenty,
memory is a thief’s
nostalgia for stealing.
Why do compasses break
when faith is necessary?
Why do even maps fail,
when doubt looks at them?
Memory is a child
that always points south;
memory is an adult
who doesn’t like maps.
Memory is a photographer
who is tired of his job.
Memory is a musician
who only wants to improvise.
Memory is a bank,
where the poor withdraw
more than the rich.
There’s always one broken lamp
in the house of memory,
and during the day
no one can see
that anything is wrong,
but at night,
when the guests are gone
and the laughter has died,
everyone refuses to sleep
in the room with no light.
Poetic Voices
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