These things,
make me remember you.
Sometimes,
at the end of November,
when the wind catches the leaves,
and the dusk runs away at five,
I remember you.
When the air stirs with an aroma.
And the wind hits my lungs
brisk,
I remember you.
On occasion,
Looking at the stones
on the beach,
beneath my feet,
so far away from life,
I remember you.
I can't remember how you were,
but only how you are.
So subtle that thought.
Like an unexpected breeze.
Or the darkness of a room
whose light has vanished.
When I write my poetry.
I quiver with that one impression,
I remember you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A nice poetry on memories of real life. You may like to read my poem, Poetic Sense-1. Thanks