The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible. ~Vladimir Nabakov

Wednesday, November 11, 2009


Innocent days of the fields picking red poppies
Not knowing the connotation of the stunning bloom
Braiding the florets into my pigtails for fancy
While spinning in an oversized dress of our room

I remember vividly the time of my pure naive age
When everyone was taller and ice cream was divine
Sugar cubes at my pretend tea parties with dollies
And even sneaking a tiny sip of my father's wine

Why do we become lost in pollution and jaded?
While the essential times is what all of us greed

Why do the dearest memories still become faded?
And we hang on to hate and revenge until we bleed

Remembering the life of once living ever so freely
Without the worry, the purest love and heart of joy
While awaking finally in my years of grey age
I comprehend the beauty of this world as my toy

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