is like swallowing glass:
their memories stay buried in the ground
like a dead ancestor -
hated
yet somehow sacred.
My memories of childhood
are like a sugar lump.
My mother's time-worn lullaby
was like dew on tender grass.
I saw the light of dawn break through the leaves
and sparkle on the cobwebs;
when beads of moisture hung there,
crystalline and delicate.
It was my shoe that broke the ice
as I stepped into the stream,
and planted a stone.
I planted a stone -
it remains unmoved
but smoothened by the flow of time.
What once was just a trickle
is now a flooded river;
and here I stand on the riverbank,
frightened
as I watch time rush away, away.
Time is change,
progression of decay;
we delay, delay,
and turn to our own way
until the end of day.
