Dear stranger, dear sentient being from a future so far I cannot imagine anything about it:
not the shape of poems,
not the way you will handle the corners
not the science you will use to decipher
this ancient script in which I write but which to me is given and taken for granted,
Dear stranger who makes my work timeless and immortal, for whose eyes only I seal this message in the bottle of centuries,
Dear salvager, dear rescue artist, dear hauntologist:
What have you done?
I wrote to escape attention. There was a brief sentence I had to serve before remembrance could be not about what has been. I wanted to fall like dust and be renewed in leaves.
How much have you forgotten?
I would like these words to be like a child’s first drawings. If you must keep them, keep them as you would a stone you picked in order to remember a place you visited.
Dear stranger, I say these things because I know they will mean nothing to you.
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