We keep up an illusion of permanence
about ourselves, that the person in
a photograph twenty or fourty years
ago is us, sharing more than body with
our current selves, and some hobbies,
currents of thought. We look at them
and say "That's me", but when we
try to remember how those people
thought, whether they would think
the same of us, doubts creep in. How
much do we really remember of them,
how much do we only imagine based
on fragments, like an archaeologist
reconstructing some broken piece of
art based on scant remains, making
brilliant murals of leaping dancers
and menacing bulls out of painted
shards and what the person of
today wants from the past?
07.06.2024
#LyricalPoem #Poem Poem #Poems Poems #Poetry Poetry #Verse Verse
Ei kommentteja:
Lähetä kommentti