Classic Poem

First I forgot you in your voice.
If you were to speak here now,
next to me,
I'd ask: " Who is it? "

Then it was your walk I forgot.
If a shadow of flesh withdraws
into the wind,
I no longer know if it's you.

You dropped your leaves slowly,
before a winter: your smile,
your look, the color of your dress, the size
of your shoes.

You dropped more leaves:
your flesh fell away from you, your body.
And only your name remained with me, seven letters of you.
And you still living in them,
desperately agonizing,
with body and soul.
Your skeleton, their tracery,
your voice, your laughter, seven letters, them.
Now your body was only the pronouncing of them.

I forgot your name.
Those seven letters go by unrelated;
they do not know each other:
Streetcar advertisements pass by; letters
flare up in colors at night;
they go on envelopes, spelling
other people's names.
And you may be there,
dissolved, destroyed and incredible.
You may be there, your name, which was you,
gone up
into some silly skies,
in an abstract glory of alphabet.