𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐆𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐁𝐒

          I am forgetting words in my native language, and the second too. I am grasping for the back of my tongue. the silver might have melted down my throat, it hardens and it stains. Do I forget my memories if I can no longer express them in the language that they were written in?

            There are long winding cobblestone streets that no longer lead to my treasured memories. I stand in front of a brick wall and think there used to be an alley here. 

           I walk across the empty square and vaguely recall the shape of acquaintances standing on this very spot. Does the river still flow in the same directions, has it been left untouched by the northern winds? 

          Dark phantom streaks in the periphery of my vision. 

           You turn swiftly, catch it off guard! 

            but there is nothing in the empty street telling you from your soul apart.