THE MEMOIRE
The streets
Are
Cold
With bare
Reality.
No one
Moves
About
As far as
The eye
Can see.
It has
Been
This way
For a while
Too long,
Haunted
Memories
Are like
Songs.
One hears
Their
Echoes
Every which
Way one
Turns...
In the
Silence
There's
A heavy
Burden.
That of
The past,
That of the
Present
And of
The now,
The haunted
Quiet
Rings loud.
Yes, the streets
Are
Cold...
An old postcard
Faded of
Color.
Once lived
Along,
Now only
A memoire
Of a
Once sang
Life's song!
FREDERIKA MENEZES
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