Monday, August 13, 2007

Remembering Self

http://write.vtheatre.net/museum/4.html


I know I'm wrong.

I know I'm right.

 She is my wife, this woman in white.

She crosses the street,

She walks away,

She is on her own...

Look at me! Hey!

I must be dreaming, I must be mad -

This woman is leaving! Please, wait! ...



I'm trembling, not yet, please, not yet...

I know this city, I know this street,

This corner, this woman, This tree...

It is me... at the corner, old tree...



It's cold, she is gone, I am done...

My leaves... getting dry, getting grey

My heart... Down Falling... Too late.

I lost. I am here. Silently brave...

 A tree is a tree.

Like a stellar above my own grave.



It was written many years ago. At the times when I believe that it possible for me to write a book, fiction, it was before I became webmaster.

No, I don't remember it. I simply know that it was me.

No, not me, somebody else.

...



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