Oblivion
Strange
people sit in
cafés of an
evening. The day
has already
flown from their memories,
slipped
through their fingers without knowing
what
remained at its end. Without knowing
love. And from within the noise reflected in
a shop
window, and the talk of this and that,
and
especially of the rise of the stocks in December,
and the
drop in the price of gold, I remember
the Gate of
Oblivion. This is the gate overlooking
the
Chambers of Joy. Because from so much
memory
you forget
who you are. Who is ugly and who
beautiful.
You forget
who lived before you by his sword,
and who
walks towards his death on the café table.
There, at
the end, between sip and sip
you will
yet discover
in the
murky depths of a cup
that
oblivion
is the
beginning of memory.
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