Chapter 2 my memory

My memory is true to me, more faithful than my best friend, It lives on the burning cigarette, it lives on the penholder painted with lilies, It survives on worn-out compacts, It lives on crumbling raspberries, it lives on half-drunk wine bottles, On the torn poems of the past, on the dried flowers, On the dim lamp, on the still water, In everything that has a soul and does not have a soul, It exists everywhere, as I do in this world. It is timid, it is afraid of people's noise, but when it is lonely, It will pay me a close visit. Its voice is low, But its words are long, long, long, trivial, and never rest;

Its words are old, always telling the same story, Its notes are harmonious, always singing the same tune, Sometimes it also imitates the voice of a coquettish maiden, Its voice is powerless, And with tears in his arms, and breath in his arms.Its visit is not certain, at any time, at any place, Often when I'm already in bed, half asleep; or choose an early morning, People will say it's rude, but we're old friends. It is petty and never rests, unless I weep mournfully, Or fell asleep, but I never hate it, because it is true to me.