Recalling who I was, I see somebody else.
In memory the past becomes the present.
Who I was is somebody I love,
Yet only in a dream.
The longing that torments me now
Is not from me nor by the past invoked,
But his who lives in me
Behind blind eyes.
Nothing knows me but the moment.
My own memory is nothing, and I feel
That who I am and who I was
Are two contrasting dreams.
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