Anterograde amnesia bothers,
But my old memories are fresh.
The old ones are as fresh as hours ago,
And the cold ones are as sharp as thrush.
In my previous life,
I used to be a musician.
Guitaring and fluting my everyday,
Life seemed to sweetly fade away.
My 6th sense failed me on a sunny day,
Collided and off I fell from my bike.
I fell, and I fell even deeper,
Into a comatose state on a sleeper.
A 23-day long coma existed in my story,
The 42 days in the hospital changed my life.
I remember nothing from that stay,
But I carry the vestiges of a battle.
The food-peg on my tummy,
It was incised inches above the navel.
Now even the extra navel,
It becomes smaller as it fades away.
I have no regrets,
Just the memories refuse to fade away.
With her, I am creating beautiful memories,
And the old memories will be overwritten.
Old songs are sweet,
But new ones are perfumed.
Scented with the new romance,
They will thrive and be forever bloomed.
I am happy with her,
And I can only be happier.
Not that I am immortal,
But through my memories,
And through my contribution
To science, to love, literature & poetry,
I Shall Always Survive.
For my Mïŧālī.
My HP Poem #1893