Old pictures,
With familiar faces,
That hold empty spaces.
Old memories,
Of what used to be,
Or of life's stolen simplicity.
Old thoughts,
Flood your mind,
Both tragic and benign.
Old friends,
Who once spoke of forever,
know now time would decide.
The old me,
would whither inside;
Only to forger myself and conform to another's mind.
My old life,
Would sew me within;
Forever lost, never to be seen again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem