I suppose I should forget you now,
like the honey forgets
the labour of the long dead bees
to become somewhere else a sweetness,
a treacle for the tongue of the sky.
The days we’ve burned in the urn of the wind,
the infinitely lost errands
that arrived in a storm of silence.
We’ll forget these two
tending their passionate hours,
as if hours have no departure,
as if lives don’t slowly form their own echoes.
Terminating seeds grow in the core of everything.
Only the honey remains,
sweet and sad,
after a thousand years.

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