Lines delicately traced,
like a sketch by Toulouse-Lautrec;
all colour & movement, sweeping angles
tangled into a lie more real than the truth:
who is that person now?
What do they dream about?
That the past is forever lost
is the only proof we have that it existed*,
but the City,
the City stays standing:
poisonous giant always reneging
on its promise to keep us safe.
Just as memories will disappear
so too will the city
& all those within it & all those yet to come.
Even the light will die in time
& nothing will remain of the elegant lines;
not yours or mine.
Our strange gift is to know this
& then try
to accept it.
* J.M. Coetzee