Quietude stood before me, escorting my thoughts
that extend unto the myriad lights of town awake during the night.
Barefoot on the roof, I observed if the swish of the falling stars
shall reach my ears; and if my reverie shall be heard up where they were.
At eight—unattended in your mom’s kitchen—we tried cooking porridge
which turned into salt-flavored water. But we had fun, didn’t we?
At twelve we raced going to the three-decade-old playground,
its swings that creak, I can hear them still, only fading through time.
The celestial unhurried song of the waves during one April sunset
you recited an impromptu poem; the same hour I replied with a yes.
Your whispers in the cinema, your giggles when you try to fool me around,
your sick voice after I forced you to dance with me in the rain—
I tried to believe of hearing them clearly; but in mere imagination, they rust,
they die little by little until one day, I’m afraid, no single tone shall stay.
Quietude remained after long minutes of remembering.
Playing with the ring I’ve always worn since our wed, I recalled the line:
I would be the man who grows old with you—your solemn promise.
And, as faithful as you are to the words, you growing old is inevitable
and so is forgetting, and so is leaving and not coming back ever again.
But behind the quietude and amidst the vague memories, this heart,
beating for you alone, shall remain as clear as it has been from the start.
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