Who did not know who he was
An empty slot in a bookshelf
A page with a title and nothing more
He saw what everyman saw
and did no more than any man
But when asked about his past
He merely looked at them and laughed
"What is my past?" Fugue would ask
"It is neither hand nor foot"
And so he would leave them wanting
Wondering what a life this man had led
Then, one day upon the surf
Of a gentle well worn beach
Fugue was taken for vagrancy
and brought before a court
When the judge, jury, and executioner
asked where he was from and what he had done
He laughed a gentle well used laugh
and told them what the didn't expect
"I am a man who is alive" Fugue said with a smile
"Not a history book or a record log"
"What is my past?" He repeated earnestly
"Is it neither blood nor bone"
The judge condemned and the jury agreed
The executioner gave his approval
For no man like Fugue should be allowed
To walk the streets again
His question was answered that day
When his cell door closed forever
The past is permanent and rightly so
For even the littlest person should know
The past is all you are
A collection of what has passed
But if you look at an empty glass
Or listen to the sound of silence
You may learn the lesson that Fugue knew well
The ticket to a world without a hell
"What is the past?" That silence will whisper
"It is neither life nor self"
There once was a man named Fugue
Who never wanted to know himself
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