As I flick through the pages,
Still images paint portraits in my head,
They lay on mottled paper,
Whilst I stare in wonder,
There lie memories,
Of lost love,
Found friends,
And digs up questions,
Where are they now? ,
Do they even remember my face? ,
Or am I but a realic in the museum of their minds,
One thing's for certain,
My memories of all that is or once was, are here,
In the time line of life.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem