Sometimes the past seems very remote–
again, close as the hallway.
Tonight, I’m looking over my shoulder,
folks I knew thirty– even forty– years ago
– friends and lovers– old enemies.
My room is full of ghosts,
quarrels, conversation of the absent, the missing,
a spectral hand on my arm–.
memories.... sometimes they are the most mystic things in our life. they exist in our mind and have an influence on our life. your poem is quite simple but beautiful in its way of writing and, of course, meaning.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I know just what you mean. Sometimes the past is right next door as though waiting to step into life again. They say (the physicists of the universe science) that in actuality time does not have to flow from past to present; the present we experience is merely where the two overlap, as they exist eternally and do not cease just because we have already lived them..I know; makes my hair stand on end too.