Pen-joy

Did I forget my name
was made of flowers,
that your intentions were good,
that all of us are pure
and floated
in the rivers of dusk,
arriving to the treasure moments?

Did I forget to tongue
friends as cubs in Africa,
when they've gone
days without meat,
to show humility,
roar, muster strength
paint red on my flesh
with tender history?

Did I forget art
develops in affection,
rests on the love
of lazy afternoons,
stations body and mind
as a covenant for chosen meaning
and comes in all shapes
of forgiveness?