The river of blossom impregnates my eyes
with the remembrance of a thousand stories,
spreading over a horizon of reds, my cries,
weeping over an impossible, wondering eyes
silently speaking of the return of absent times
that ignite ‘the I’ to forget what I regret while
I’m still remembering the river of blossomed stories
within.
History is meant to be remembered but when history becomes a sorrow regret, how can we prevent history from repeating itself if you want to forget?
