THE MEMORY OF ME

by Ashraf Osman

Stories by Ashraf Osman
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THE MEMORY OF ME
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I stop and look back;
There is nothing anymore ahead of me.

I stoop into the abyss of my memory,
Out of boredom.

I repeat myself, in endless tautologies,
I talk, but am tired of hearing my voice.

And they rush onto me
In heaps of illusion
Of a semblance of a reality that was.

And they hurl onto me
Their perfumed corpses
And seduce me with my own name.

And I cry.

It is not me that cries,
For I, too, have died.
It is the memory of me

 

Ashraf Osman

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