If there’s a thing I don’t like about humans,
perhaps I could say it’s their memory.
I hate a memory that cracks like a whip,
the memory that has no empathy.
Even mercy resents it,
ever reluctant to caress their face.
There is no comforting glance,
not even a silken tongue can mend your ways,
if your memory whips and cracks,
ever a temper, ever ablaze.
Reluctant to let things go,
not a detail is left out of your recall,
they ache for your forgetfulness,
a hint of succour, release from your thrall.
There’s no pride in itemisation,
of every past thing said or unto you wrought,
how sage-like, how noble,
is the forgiver, who reduces memory to naught.
Wesam El dahabi