Tuesday, May 29, 2012

I divide what I know.
There's what I am
And what I have forgotten.
Between the two I go.

I'm not who I have in memory
Nor who is in me now.
If I think, I self-dismember.
If I believe, there is no end.

Better than all of this
Is to listen, in the foliage,
To the soft and certain breeze
Blowing through the leaves.

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