Oh, how cruelly sweet are the echoes that start,
When Memory plays an old tune on the heart!
Then indeed, the lights are rekindled,
but who can be sure that they can never be dwindled?
Friends depart, but remain in the memory caverns,
So pure and so deep, noone knows they take you to which tavern.
A year impairs, a luster obliterates,
But memories in the heart can never evaporate.
All memories dont have a fragrance of musk,
Some are rusk and some are brusk.
My poem is but, a thought, a mere memory caught at play,
From hand onto paper, bleeding thoughts at stay.