Young, but not too young to know the names of the dead,
the student of history attempts to reconstruct
a dried flower, petal by withered petal. It's not the same
as the once-living specimen, of course: the colors are dull,
the body disjointed in the places where stem meets leaf, bits of glue
here and there. A puppet that smells of nothing, not even of death.
But blame that on Time, the great thief. Blame not
the poor student, pale and hard-shouldered and perpetually
haunted. Look in the mirror: you will see your own youth
crumbling away, until the dust that was once your face litters the floor.
A mouse peeks out from the cave of your eye socket. Footsteps
echo, vibrating as if forged in the great cathedrals of the High Medieval.
Multifoliate light, still bright after nine centuries, conquers
the room and the mirror. The student has come, dustpan in hand.