We are a matter of strangeness
who was going to tell us
that we have suffered so much
But our memory does not burn
and we no longer know how to die
Memory of life,
memory of days and life,
knife that opens the world
spreading some guts that I can't decipher.
Memory of the afternoons and the light,
you light up the look
you are the implacable lookout,
the severe compass, the prison witness
that knots time in its dungeon.
What are you looking for, memory, what are you looking for.
You follow me like a hungry dog
and you tend your pitying gaze at my feet;
sniffing, pernicious, on the way
the trace of the days that were,
that they are no longer and that they never will be.
The rags of bliss clothe you
and desolation has made you cautious;
memory of life, memory of days and life.
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