THE PAST

Sequence of images on the other side of the curtain,

In a semi-dark gloomy room,

Is nothing but a foggy trail of memory.

The past is still calling, sometimes. Maybe often…

We usually encounter in the absurd. The feeling is melancholic.

I tell her: I am the one you have kept from the past days.

Maybe I'm a little older, more experienced, worse...

When you leave the apartment, do not close the window.

I have to know,

when the curtain flutters in the wind that hides you,

That is nothing but the proof

That I am still here,

when the storm strikes.


 

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