Note for the readers: This is a very random poem that came to my mind today after a chance encounter with old, long-lost, suddenly retrieved photographs.

In pillars and stones of lost times,
Old memories are nourished with shards and bits of
Our random smiles, our messed up gestures,
Our endless wandering,
Our imperfect poses in dilapidated frames.
Silhouettes of these worn-off days are what remain of the memories’ lineage.
Every day we are drunk of hopes that come to us
In comfortable faces,
we shut our lives in the warm blinds of tomorrow’s fertile promises,
While memories, wild, passionate, forbidden,
Wander the streets where we have fumbled, squatted, yawned with emptiness.
Today, for once, let me be lost,
Wandering those random city streets.
Let the memories be the lawns, dug up in places,
The pieces of you, the pieces of me, together, like the ghosts
Of our past, rummaging them,
Hunting, like scavengers, for our boxed, shipped, exhausted days.


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