In the alleys of the mind
walk the shadows of the unspoken,
dragging their steps across forgotten words,
while I gather the scraps of time
like fallen leaves at the end of autumn.
I do not seek redemption,
only a faint reflection
on the calm side of the water,
where wounds seem asleep
and the stars close their eyelids early.
And if you ever return at dusk,
I will not ask you who you are;
I will stand in silence,
listening to the rustle of lilies
blooming again on the crumbling walls.
It will stand before me,
like a mirror that shows not the face
but the soul that hid behind the gaze.
It will remind me that memory
is nothing but a wound that learned to breathe,
a torn fabric stitched together
with thread of dust and light.
And I,
not knowing if I win or lose,
will go on gathering
whatever fragments remain of old stories;
as if holding in my hands
all the tattered moons of the world
and sewing them back together,
so they will never fade away.