What makes it something that I need to remember?
Why do the legends of our times fade and die?
Why do only I remember them and their greatness?
I suppose my memory is but that of a child's:
Marked by the sweet romances of sunny childish days
Stories of knights in shining armor and strong heroes and
Damsels dancing fresh around my little head.
I know all their names: Who they were and what they did
All that made them so great in my mind at the time
But is this memory the true one of them?
It must be good enough: I alone remember these leaders
If I alone remember, then I too am part of their story
For I hold the lighthouse; the library
Records of all their triumphs and romances
No defeats of theirs can I ever recall
Now I stand on the threshold of a new dawn
Those who once were great here, live no more
I am the link to this new morn
I stand in their footsteps, and look backwards home
My shadow, a long cape, behind me
Travels the dusty road where I have just been
And after it, they travel: young children
They are all younger than I ever was
I tell them of my heroes;
My martyrs and my saints,
They look up at me, then left and to the right
Around me they see heroes of their own.
Will any of these infants ever look at me
As I looked towards the gods of my youth?
Always will they remember some of us, sure
But am I to be recalled?
I cry out, yet no one does hear
None of us are worthy to compare
To those names who came and left before!
We are not them, nor shall ever be
Yet it does not matter, to those young like me
They will not remember us as humans,
Never even see us as anything capable
Of eating peeing or dying.
To them they remember just the details
Only the music you make; and your name.
If they ever tried to know who we really were,
They would scarce give us any fame!
Why do we, who stand here this day
Not look like the stories who have gone before?
Standing proud, tall in their moment of departure
Never once casting a glance back.
And why are these people even remembered?
What does it take, for a child,
Standing in the spot where I once stood
To remember this moment in glorious detail?
Why does this child remember with glory?
Will she even remember me?
Glorify my name, talk of me to others
When I have left for good?
How can I tell her that these legends
Stories she creates, are not real,
Nor ever have been!
What she thinks they are, is not how it was.
And yet, somehow it is all just as real
Now as it was then, the only thing wrong is me
Looking back over the years, the problem:
It is just not how I dreamed this moment to be