The story has long turned into a lump in my throat,
I have no more memories of the lips I had kissed
Or the smell of the arms where I had rested my head.
Yet the ghosts of the memory haunt me…
Like Wordsworth’s Solitary Reaper
I stand alone under the winter rain,
The tears have long gone.
Yet the thorns of the black rose prick the weary heart…
The memory has vanished like the February mist
But a few whispers have remained…
I dream of flying
Like Marry Poppins with the red umbrella,
My angel smiles the sunbeam for me,
But two orange autumn leaves are still surviving the new breeze…