When I saw my old dear love, unexpectedly,
heart didn’t flame up
my cheeks and eyes didn’t light up.
No one was around
and yet, we didn’t caress, embrace,
or say sweet little words.
We sat by the fire,
like brooding birds,
covering our minds and bodies
with our own shadows.
The breeze coming from beyond her
didn’t touch me or tell me of her heart beats.

The rusted stars, the worn out moon
and the tired sun passed through her eyes.
But, they didn’t last
or even I didn’t take any shape.

As she wandered in the ruins of memory
I was not with her.
The names secured to her lips were erased.
Mine, too.

Like the one trying to find
the meaning of a word in a dictionary
I sat there, eyes wide open.
She too.

Man has no freedom at all.
Showed her our old photograph,
asked her if she recognized herself there.
Oh, the burnt out excitement.
Oh, the adventure lost.
“Don’t you think, my friend,”
she asked, “we reside now in different states?”

Yes. Perhaps.
She could have turned a nymph easily
if I had changed her costume in the photograph!
Then, both would have felt the urgency,
would have flamed,
unable to keep quiet,
as if to solve a riddle,
as if to capture the sun,
would have jumped, or made to jump.
When the body was fire
there was no fear of the shadow.
Now, the cold shadow of the body
dances to the frenzy of fire.

How did the nymph of the old
become a lifeless limb now?
Oh, how am I?

“Tell me, my girl,” I said,
“Tell me when did the fire within go out?
And how?”

“Yes, my dear,” she said,
“We have no freedom at all.”