Some Distant Day

stillness wrapped in stillness, memory ingrained in time. an ancient holy book written on a leaf, that falls freely, turns bright with passion, and crumbles into death! who are we? and what remains? more than the inflection of voice? less than scriptures etched in stone? a star? a caterpillar? a gust of wind? does the soul retain identity? the spirit have a familiar face? does the name change... from Henry to pebble, from William to speck of dust? angel's wings, i think not! neither pitchforks, nor hideous horns! does the stone i read this poem to... hear me? know what i've said? recognize and feel comfort? or is it all worms and time and black and white photographs? or a dropp of rain that feels like a lover come back? or are we just nails rusted on the bridge of time? do you know? do you care? will your lips quiver on some distant day... trying to remember how to speak my name?