This shared amnesia
has prevented us from grieving
our troubled past. “What allegory is this?”
I hear you ask. My love, we are lost
in a timeless mist of the self-convinced.
So, let’s be brave, ask ourselves
the most pertinent question: Were we the perpetrators
or are we the victims?
Perhaps it was just a combination of things
that caused the rift between us and a fog to descend
upon all that we love, like an Arthurian curse;
compounding the hardship of our middle age.
Yes, I know: inside the heart, forgiveness
may be found, but my sorrow still casts a shadow
over this ancient ground.
Crushed, like you, I am tired and want to lie down; yet, I’m sure
I must journey on through low clouds to a perilous place
where a dragon can be found, one that must be slain
to restore good faith and bring an end to my shame.
But while this dark spell lingers, creeping with corpse-like fingers
through the hills that I roam — inching over my conscience —
it corrupts my soul.
Inspired by “The Buried Giant” by Kazuo Ishiguro
