A Critical History of the Old and the New
What if I were to tell you these words weren’t new
And I wrote them a year ago— maybe a few
Were pulled from the snatching hands of Forget
And many of them I will come to regret?
But how would you know if these words were reviewed
Or if they were just written out of the blue.
Then, how would you know what I’m writing is true
Without figuring out if it’s old or it’s new?
So, you must understand that I cannot eschew
Asking one simple question: your love, was it glue
Which stuck onto me and dragged along you
and this old love of yours is the same, but it grew?
Or now, after time, is this love shining through
The beginning of which was back one day, or two
Having now enough time for it to accrue
Enough feeling for your gentle heart to construe?
This love you’ve discovered, please give me a clue,
Was it not long ago that it made it’s debut
Or has it been there all along, inside you
This love that you’ve found is it old, is it new?
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