When Memories Fade


Seems I have nearly forgotten how softness feels,
forgotten the feel of tender love and
the sound of her whispers, satisfied.

The soothing warmth of her faith, firm
around my blunt soul ever rebelling
and the taste of her fluid smile too are forgotten.

As if the vigor of her memories were drained,
so they could not live through the winter last,
the harshest I have seen so far.

Though it is gone a week almost,
traveling south and downward on the globe
as the glowing sun slowly to the north returned,

what the warm sun and the cold haze of the winter
have for ages done, like two lovers in wild love
on their bed, the sky, blue and vast,

there are still no signs of the spring
and from the appearance of things right now
the spring just might be unusually late this year.

While the barren, scorching days too dry, loomed ahead
and my urge to sense her softness again
with my ragged skin is on the rise

there are still no signs of the spring
and from the appearance of things right now
it seems as though the spring might never come this year.

Instead of mellow love and care, indifference
and in place of the prolific wonders of rain,
I knew this year droughts would ravish me, when I saw,

instead of her memories, soaking wet
with just the soothing warmth needed to belong
only a dry, sterile wind has returned.

Then I knew the agony of an empty brain
once I have tried in vain to recall through the night
those sweet feelings and sounds that were to me dearer,
once not too long ago, than even my own life.

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