Our Selves, Our Graves
Our Selves, Our Graves
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw.
—T.S. Eliot
Our graves will not be marked
by any memories of
What we’ve done, but
rather
We are our graves.
We step like phantoms
among walls of
Houses, inhaling loneliness.
Our graves will not be marked
by any trace or
sign of
Life. Lifeless is what we are,
our gaze is empty,
our breath is meaningless.
Our graves will not be marked
by stars or dreams,
Only cold comfort of tile
and glass, of clocks
and instruments.
Our graves, like our selves,
are covered
By masks and monuments
that scream for
Love, love buried deep inside
Our selves, our graves.
August 8, 1992
--Alexander Shaumyan
The Door: Selected Poems
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The new legacy is to have our work on the Internet. With the help of AI, it will be stored in category according to its usefulness in future generations and will rest there probably for eternity. Or at least until eternity dissolves the "simple" code that supports it until it is no more.
Ron