it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
Love has no history, and history no love
The mystery of history is what we're speaking of
History has no care or concern for the distant way
For the voices silenced before the coming of the day;

You are my arms, my legs, you are my hands and feet
To consider a man not but a cell, would it not be meet
To curse your birth and die the death, if you then must be
A statistical consideration of a faceless history?

But man is neither a thing at all if considered on his own
Such things are no more human; such things of earth and stone
That no man is, a statue gross, single and abstruse
A supposed immortal work of art, a work without a muse;

But man is not a museum just to stir a sentimental urge
Man is a procession, a festal funeral dirge
Played along that distant way, toward the waiting sea
The stones in love they walked above; such is History.

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