The little chips of time
we spent together,
pop up on the margin of memory
and tell stories history will never record.
They are so much part of history
though, that made and unmade
the world around me, but I was no more
than a component of history.
I wore them like shirts to a party,
felt honoured, claimed privileges,
and flaunted my class.
I hardly recognised they were
price of a million years loneliness,
designed to cut another million short,
and take me out of the race.
When I looked in the mirror
I saw two faces, and admired them,
while you wanted me to see a single face.
Today I see a single face,
scarred, haggard, and scared.
I know you couldn’t have forced on me
what I couldn’t have retained;
You couldn’t have called to your banquet
a dirty traveller, who revelled
in wayside inns to leisurely sip
a second round champagne.
But when I was beginning to see the day,
you called it a day.
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