Raindrops sliding down a dirty window –
or was it me just now low-key crying?
Too much time driving down the road —
too many phantoms of the past to remember.
My backpack next to me, my old-time friend,
he whispers of those summer days gone by.
How many turns till their scent fades away?
How many — till no longer I can hear your voice?
My memory’s a murky river, cold and deep.
One plunge there is enough to wake me up.
And on the other side my trail is waiting for me,
it leads me up to a misty mountain peak.
From there, I see green meadows turning yellow;
the eagle tells me to forget the past and fly with him.
I struggle to let go yet, and keep following my trail.
Somewhere past the ridge I still might run into you.
Somewhere past the ridge
© Copyright: Александр Арганаиди, 2024
Свидетельство о публикации №124093004835
Свидетельство о публикации №124093004835
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