I'm afraid, I am still afraid.
I fear my memory, my helplessness, 
the names that written on graves 
I will forget.
As the Escapist said:
"The thought on my family's graves
was the only moment  I used to experience
true love. That love remains infinite..."
And oh- if only permanence was to humankind immanent!

But what of that dreadful, obscene disease,
that steals away my life, my memories?
Are my flight and its embers
capable of remember?

Will my own thumb blur the letters on the tombstones?
Will I watch the fires consume the trees I've sown?
When I see your faces, friends, will they surge
from the deep dense waters I battle with?
When you come to my bed as moths that merge,
would your roar/call be for the fall the scythe?

And if you, whoever, wherever, whenever you may be,
my tales you read, my songs you sing,
will I come forth,
will I beckon,
will your hands I reckon,
will you still be my North?

[Will you turn mazes of Babylon
into words?]

Does love overcomes oblivion?
Does legacy overcomes time?

Sing to me, sing to me!
I know they will.

Because when music dies,
my life
is but a heartbeat away.
And when I die, my North,
Me: swarth,
I'll be but a poem away.

Pierce the veil, dare to assail,
because I'm still afraid,
I dread that you will slip through my fingers, I dread.
Soothe me, lie to me, tell me you'll go in my stead,
But-

But you can't.
You're oceans, years away.

If you only knew
I'm but a poem away!