Born on a Sunday, a Poem

A few things about memories here, translated…

After the Photo was Developed

Did I Realize

That In Order to, Gaze Upon the Man in the Photo

You’d Needed to, Pass Through that Unmovable Boundary

To Stare at, the Man in the Image from the Other Side

Like How I’d, Picked Up that Ring, that’s Fallen Off the Hand

(That Ring that My Grandmother Once Wore, as She’d Washed the Laundry and Kneaded the Doughs),

Through the Denseness of the Fog, into the Woods where the Green Fruits Fell, on that Icy Plain


I’d Often Imagined Climbing Upward

That Lung that’s Needing More Oxygen

The Bloated Up Heart

not my photograph…

The Reflections from the Snow that Blinded the Hikers

The Coldness

Along with More of that, Indescribable Freezing Temperature

There’s Not that Many Things in the World That

Needed the Lights to Shine Upon Them Constantly

The Songs without the Lyrics

Which Are Still Worthy of Being Sung

Some Streets

That Were Remembered, But No Need to Travel Back to

Those Who’d Stayed

May Not Necessarily Be Your Friends

The Lovers, Don’t Need to Be Embraced

And, Those Remembered Things, Can and Will be Forgot Once More

Just Like Staring at This Photograph

Giving My Last Kissnot my photo…

Understanding, that This Huge Snowstorm Will

Forever Bury the Face on the Photograph

That Icy Cold Air

Will Forever Damage the Lungs

And that Pocket the Photos Were Kept

Will Forever, Burn Up Inside Your Chest Cavities

So, this, is how hard it would be, to forget, because, even IF one day, the brains forgot, the mind and the memories are still, keeping track of what the brains had let go of……………


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