Nostalgia a killer, a tricky foe,
often using poetic license
to shape our past.
I’m trying to manage with it
But I miss you, and there’s no help.
Do you remember…
Do you remember that sunny day,
impressed in the snapshot, far from perfect?
A child of three, I'm riding tricycle.
You tell me to turn round, and there --
your shade on the sand of the pathway.
A part of your shade,
the head and shoulders of a tall man
with the camera in hands over there
beside the shade of the whitethorn
in the nice public garden,
the Left Bank.
old lime-trees, phloxes,
What kind of bushes
at the background of the picture?
Lilacs, as far as I remember.
By the time of the snapshot,
the lilacs have stopped blooming,
and the time of lime-trees has come,
the time when my birthday approaches.
Do you remember?
And now, when I write this,
it’s June-July again. The summer heat.
Pictures of the past rise before my mind's eye.
Is there any use to talk with the dead?
Yes, there is --
if I could believe in a possibility of the talk.
The Web -- Cosmos -- Afterlife.
*from the Land of Cast-Iron Snowdrops with love*