Vol 12, Num 6 :: 2013.03.15 — 2013.03.28
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never openedFour Quartets, T.S. Eliot
If I were now to look at my past, is that not the present; if I hold to you from yesterday,
don’t you become today?
In layers of memory I see you, the pigment of your skin and the scars in your knees
from days we climbed the sun drenched hill.
I wheedle, dig into the dust heaped in the backyard, but images from sepia pictures
from years ago have turned blur.
The sand dune is swept by the gust of wind to form a new landscape where the foliage
has changed; the reflection I see in the lake is not yours.
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