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 Endre Farkas

Here is where we find lost memories.
Here, we scatter crumbs
to find our way back to the hidden,
unremembered drawers
in homes we will never return to.

Here is where our guilt and sadness
sit accusingly, silently, like the old
on park benches watching the world
drop its coins in cups and
know that it means nothing.

Here is where no explanation is good enough
no matter how right
to make the guilt and sadness go away.
This is what we inherit,
is our heirloom,
even if we do not want it,
to pass onto our children.

Here is where we come,
bringing morsels of ourselves
watch ourselves disappear
into labyrinths of stories,
with awe we listen
and wave good-bye as best we can.

Here is where we see white steam rising
outside the window this winter afternoon,
and lie down like a laid-out corpse
and, lips barely moving
ask, for the last time,
can I go home now?

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