On The Day The World Ends A

For A Country Without A Past Is Nothing, A Word That, Hardly Spoken, Loses Its Meaning, A Perishable Wall Destroyed By Flame, An Echo Of Animal Emotions.

I Knew That I Would Speak In The Language Of The Vanquished No More Durable Than Old Customs, Family Rituals, Christmas Tinsel, And Once A Year The Hilarity Of Carols.

The Child Who Dwells Inside Us Trusts That There Are Wise Men Somewhere Who Know The Truth.

Our Memory Is Childish And It Saves Only What We Need.

He Returns Years Later, Has No Demands. He Wants Only One, Most Precious Thing: To See, Purely And Simply, Without Name, Without Expectations, Fears, Or Hopes, At The Edge Where There Is No I Or Not-i.