Little drops

Little drops

Little drops have disappeared in the silvery light,

The moon has washed them dry.

They were formed with tales of times,

Little fingers have turned old.

Not able to jog with the nib on pages,

The pencil that would turn unsurely making faces,

Turned into a tree with stories hanging in branches

With nests of fruits that sleep and wake up

With the stars;

Forgotten appearances now hiding brown inside,

The albums arranged in order,

And yet the mind sees through the time,

When the light enters into those corpses

Through the garden, and touches the space,

It is ready again to reel down those delightful drops of moments.

01 July 2014