In Memory's Self-Immolation

Our connection has ceased—
for some strange reason
the distance between us has multiplied manifold.

In imagination, when the brahminy kite of our feelings
nearly touched the sky...
just then a gust of wind came
and stole away all my memory.
You too clutched that wounded bird.

For the first time—
you showed me the depths of your heart,
though nothing old remains
in my mind now.
Could it be that they...
are trapped in memory's self-immolation?

So many wounds across your body...
seeing them causes me terrible pain,
inside my chest, again and again
I writhe in agony!

But who are you?
To keep touching you—
why do I feel so empty?
Why is this moment so utterly silent?
Are we known to each other from before?