Memories Look At Me
By Tomas Transtromer
A June morning, too soon to wake,
too late to fall asleep again.
I must go out — the greenery is dense
with memories, they follow me with their gaze.
They can’t be seen, they merge completely into
the background, true chameleons.
They are so close that I can hear them breathe
though the birdsong is deafening.
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