Such fear lies in forgetting one’s own name
Or e’en the names of children fully grown
When memories to which hearts once laid claim
Lie barren like a field no longer sown.
What’s thought, then, or the value of belief
When certainty’s so easily mislaid?
What’s measure of pure joy or brutal grief
When threads of recollection are too frayed?
Too often do I trust in mem’ry’s cage
As though a life of mind were life in sum,
As though cold logic were existence’ gauge
When with emotion, minds feel quite undone.
The heart remembers more than intellect;
For lucid is the love that souls collect.
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