Untitled #6 Poem by Janina Degutyte

Bygones cannot be bygones.
Only streets and squares
have forgotten the smell of fire.
Only fields
have forgotten the taste of blood.
Iron forsaken still bleeds with rust.
Bygones cannot be bygones.
Time's not a beast, it cannot
lick its wounds
with a rough wet tongue.
We bear its wounds within.
Hidden by casual chatter,
a silent pause, half-smile, half-prayer...
Hidden in a yellowing letter
or a visionary tombstone...
These wounds we hide with a baby's palm,
with our daily, unyielding routine,
with Chopin or Bach...
We wish they were soothed by a kiss...
They don't heal, though. They bleed
at the touch of a thoughtless hand...
And in peace now and then
they flare up as lively as roses
or poems...