The dusty tomes of fourteen generations, thrice,
blew open to their fullness,
as the divine Spirit shadowed
over a young semitic girl.
A memory or, better, remembrance,
from something like almighty synapses firing into connections,
not because of absentmindedness, but ripeness:
timelines were never promised.
So, the memory came, born into a broken place,
unto forgetful people.
He cried, the wailings rising and proclaiming
with infant-eternal breath to all creation:
“I do not forget!”