History holds more than its seams.
Its truces are hemmed by the tatter of abandoned ideals,
the nightmares of the sightless,
hobbling upon the dark leeway
of pale ghosts and dim street-lights, to
break the loop of passing,
if only for its begotten wonders.
With eyes turned from the future
I walk towards the past and dream the
dreams of passing solitude,
dreams colourless and longer than I want remember.
I notarize the passing,
with words I feed my mind
and the gestures that mold my reality.
I’m my past, bereft of my present
no scribe can tell these plunges into pathos apart
no do I want them to.
For, I’ve seen the eyes of promise in a
newborn’s blind eyes
I’ve held my fate in the tepid caul of its birth.
I’ve seen the same cold enthusiasm in the eyes
Of my senile friend Alfonso.
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