The past
is pressed flowers
discovered
between pages
of a long
discarded book.
A flimsy
brittle remnant
forgotten
silent summer.
The past
a friend,
my life,
unfulfilled
desires.
secrets,
dreams.
There are more
than books
or words
in the library.
so true, and the past is also all the moments, happyness, laughter, good moments, to hold and feel the smile they put in our soul. Keep on dreaming the secret dreams and share them... loved your poem
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I like the simple but poignant thought, written in simple, easy-to-understand words, and taken from your own life, authentic. 'Brevity is the soul of wit' and brevity often makes for a more potent poem. Thanks.