Flicking through the pages,
still images paint portraits in my head,
and poetic words bring back forgotten memories
They lay on mottled paper;
I stare in wonder of what once was,
there lay memories,
of lost love,
Found friends,
And a loving family
digging up questions never answered,
where are they now,
What are they doing,
do they even remember my face,
Or even my name?
Or am I just some ancient relic
In the museum of their minds,
one thing's for certain,
my memories of all that was or is, 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
Or am I just some ancient relic, in the museum of their minds? This line is brilliant! Great piece!