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Sunday Reflections 1
I’m back but there are no fanfares, tanned by years
in a warmer clime I look as… I feel, foreign.
But all this fade I’m back in the streets of 1948
black and white the only colour was the green grass
of spring, it was a time when everyone looked old
at twenty five and interviewed by the local paper for
reaching the grand old age of sixty five.
Too bleak for words, nothing here but silenced
screams, the smell of poverty, that clings to the skin,
and empty bottles of booze. I’ll unload my memories
here on the pavement leave them for others to find;
bleached bones, no, I cannot free myself the shackles
too strong, but I can trim it at the ages and make it
pretty by adding a sun and a lamb on a hill.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.