1997

rummaged through my old shelves and retrieved a note book from the past. written in 1997, the years spent in university... learning the taste of first loves and its sight and touch. the long yet fleeting hours which tranced and haunted me from the start...cummings echoes its tenderness best when he scripts it against the scentfalls of flower and rain and the hands that held the precious little left from those days... something still remains...



(i do not know what it is about you that closes
or opens: only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody:
not even the rain has such small hands...

e.e.cummings:
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond