PRISONER OF TIME 2 © 2008

The memory remains,

Like an echo that does not fade,

In the retina of the eye, the recent past,

Is painted in colours that time weaves.

The wound, still open and alive,

Pours its latent pain into poetry,

The blood, coagulated and warm,

Flows through the lines, in corrosive ink.

Each verse, a sigh of the soul,

That finds freedom in the suffering word,

And in poetry, it finds calm,

Even if it is in repeated pain.

The recent past, etched in the gaze,

Overflows with images that do not fade,

And in poetry, wounds are transformed,

Into scars that soothe the heart.

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