In the alleys of the mind.

 

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.