My memory is indeed a liar.
When my heart speaks,
my head conceals.
Like weft of fears one branch felt
On a wintry night, laid bare
When the other bough burst into pink blossoms
ready to share wishes
Of my memory.
That tried hard to remember
What lay at the bottom of the deep.
Even shadows dare not form.
A magician whispered to a saint:
"My memory is indeed a liar."
You wove a cloth of magical nights
filled with stars and gossamers.
Making love on slopes
Trekking past rolling stones,
the boughs forgot.
They whisper words of a saint today.
Fading into obscurity
Diffusing your presence.
Even your shadow was concealed.
Did my memory of you
Lie to me again?
St. Peter and Simon Magnus disputing with Simon Magus before Nero; the fall of Somon Magus [mosaic, Cappella Palatina, Palermo, 1140-1170]