— The secret is love. Tell everyone. —
. . .

There are dreams that we wish we’d forget.
There are secrets that we will never know.
There are wonders that nobody ever sees.
There is love that pours out never to touch anyone.
There is time only to do a few of so many important things.
There is at the end, death, from which none escape.

And yet, this day can be so sweet.
. . .

I Remember

I remember fire dancing at my fingertips,
there, in the dream of my youth;
I remember simple things, unsubtle and sweet,
hot and cold, soft and hard,
actions that had no consequence,
immortal years that never would end,
except that alas, they did anyway. I remember
the girls, saving themselves
for a heartbreak, and the boys who bragged
about things that they imagined
they did, there in the
sunshiny morning of youth,
as pure as dew, as simple as a grassy park.
There was pain, too, but
that seems less real than the rest of it,
not that I pretended that I hurt,
but that I bounced back so easily,
back in the saddle to
ride toward the sunset
in our heroic derivatives of myth.
I do not lament that
forever seems to have come and gone,
for in my mind those years
hold an eternal place,
there in the springtime of the world
when our youth was
as infallible as a blue sky, and
so many impossible things happened.
. . .
.

Confess to Bokonon:



You'll feel better.
.