Aged Mirrors (16) Poem by Raquel Angel Nagler

Years made of evening.
Our tears
Are not a child anymore.
They play no longer with our laughter.


Hours made of weary years.
We walk no longer
By the shop-windows of dream,
In the markets of hope, of longing.


Inside us: late hours.
We realize that for years
We looked for ourselves
Where we were not.


The hour of shadows.
Even our dreams grow old.
They are wrinkled, bald, bent
As our soul.


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