Bygones resemble fish oil
Stains which cannot be cleaned
Imprinted on the webs of memory
Underneath which the acne of trauma
Are revealed
Forlorn senses
To have dreams
To nurse hope.
Without remembrance there is no dis-cover-y.
You remember the unordinary things
Your personal mnemo-poetics is a question of training
Everyday rehearsals
Of “I am” and “I am not”.
The past is a chain made of rusty rings
Heart-wrenching life-narratives
Unique in dimension, even in proportion
As for instance –
The massive blindings
Orgies as signs of revenge
Pogroms, fires, annihilations
Christianization, Islamization
Hellenization (…)
The kingdom of conversions
Of legalized unlawfulness
Incest, infanticide
Conspiracies and tragicomic
Scenarios,
All in all,
HERE
History is
Monstrously
Grotesque…
The past is a story we remember
The story which has marked us.
History speaks the language
Of challenges –
All that which has circumscribed
The fate
Of the banal.
Wishing to return
To the righteous path
To be in line
You who have not lost yourself in the masses
Of the impersonal
You, for whom
History is the quest for
The personal
You
Tell me what you wished to have
Banned
From memory
What you hid
So that it may never be revealed
Tell me what you wished to have
Forgotten
Then I’ll tell you what it was like, your
Past.
Oblivion remembers
In its own way
Or at least
It cannot
Be said of it
That
It has no
Style.