Let The Dead Bury The Dead Poem by Patti Masterman

We can't even believe our own strange histories;
Though they stare us in the face, for hours each day
And awaken us in a cold sweat, during the nighttimes.

And what if someone told me they remembered me
In another place and time, wearing other clothing and relationships
Would I laugh, and say they've lost their mind?

What if they had pictures; claiming it was me
And asked me if I had strange memories
How could I reply? Not one can know a man's secret heart

Would I feel it was ego, trying to elevate itself to something
More commendable; higher status of another life
But none of that could matter anymore; the past has died.

Nothing is gone so far away as the past; hold my hand
Tell me those old stories if you want to. But bury the past deeply;
The only history that survives it, in the highlight of an eye.

And if I see his face in a vision, it is just that;
Only a vision, even if it wasn't a photograph, even with
Correct dimensions; and if I hear her voice, it is just that;

A voice is a freedom in the air, like a flying bird;
A bird can fly from tree to tree, singing its heart out in song-
And if she now is free like that, that's all that I could hope for.