I have forgotten all the names,
the names of my dead and of my sons.
I don’t recognize the odours of my house
nor the sound of the key turning in the door.

I do not remember the timbre of my most cherished voices
nor do I see the things my eyes look at.
Words sound without me understanding them,
I am a stranger on these intimate streets
and there is no happiness or unhappiness that can wound me.

I have scratched out my history of forty years.
I love you.