Trace, a poem by David Garyan

Trace

Without words,

memory is a piece of paper—

one invisible to the eye,

like the wind that sways a tree.

It's a rock as old as time,

not a brick from long ago. It's the plant as old as nature, not the weed from manmade gardens.

Memory has written

too many blank books—

all with enticing covers;

it doesn’t mind

screaming in libraries,

and has learned every language,

except its own.

Memory follows wherever you go,

but it’s been divorced

in every country.

The hands of memory build igloos,

and its feet walk barefoot on fire.

It finds water in the desert,

and catches sunshine in the Arctic.

No graveyard can bury it;

no preacher dares

deliver its eulogy;

no saint boasts

about carrying its burden;

no tyrant believes

he can escape from its sight.

Memory gets younger

as it gets older;

children care as much about their past,

as old people care about their future.

If memory ended with an “I,”

the world would remember no one,

but sadly it ends with a "y."

Why should I care?

Why should I remember you?

No one has stayed 21

for more than a year.

That's how the past and future remain the same—

both accept the invitation of time,

and they never forget to come, even

when they've not been invited.

Life is a party full of guests with plus ones,

but here birth and death visit

for the first and last time.

Yesterday is always a day early. Today is never on time. And tomorrow says it’s time to go.

In times of thirst,

memory is the salt

in the ocean.

In times of hunger,

it's a sea

of bland food.

In times of plenty,

it feeds the thief’s

nostalgia.

Why do compasses break

when faith is necessary?

Why do even maps fail,

when doubt looks at them?

An adult is someone

who always points south;

a child is an adult that looks at a compass yet still goes where he wants.

Don't forget the photographer

who's tired of the world.

Don't forget the gravedigger

who only wants to rest.

Remembrance is a bank

where the poor withdraw

more than the rich.

There’s always one broken lamp

in every reminder,

and during the day

no one can see

that anything is wrong,

but at night,

when the guests are gone

and the laughter has died,

all eyes refuse to sleep

in the room with no light.