Poetry

He drains the last sip
and cries out:
How can a person forget their own name?
And he forgets
that he forgets.

We stand, watching
in all the legends,
forgetting
that it’s possible.
And then, in the height of forgetting,
we remember our names.
And he sets his glass down
and says:
See? It’s impossible for one to forget their name.

To be emptied is easy.
To remain empty, that’s what’s hard.
In a moment, you are emptied.
And you forget
that you were not supposed to forget.
And you replay it a thousand times,
as if another life is not supposed to begin.

Again, he shouts:
I forget that I have forgotten.

I have forgotten my name,
my identity,
my soul.
Its trace fades,
and once more,
he forgets
that he had forgotten

.

Poet: Myself