At the
heart of everything is that

I don’t
know exactly what, or why I bother to speak

And I
feel no urge to change the topic now

You will
never know who I was, nor do I want that fact to spread

When you
lift this out of the dark mouth of this dreamy abyss,

Shake
loose the dirt of centuries over the plaque

And hold
it to the amazing sunlight I have already forgotten

I shall
not rise again through my writing

For I
wish not to be disturbed

But a
veritable treasure this will be, I am sure,

A relic,
of historic value, but the personal little strains that

I write
this for, now,

Will be
suppressed and forgotten

That is
how you are

A myopic
generation, refusing to see what’s right in front of you

because it’s
right in front of you

And no
one ever taught you how to see such things.

Fine, I
shall remain a relic, and though I quiver at the thought of being hung for the
public display,

I shall
be long gone by then, that is my only consolation.

Come
find me out, after a thousand years, pull me out of this cave

And do
with me whatever you wish to,

I don’t
care, for this will not be me any more when you pluck it

I am
taking the train tonight.

1Life.