I forgot how the
morning birds used to wake me up
I live on the streets now with the sounds of
screeching tires
I remember how
the morning rays curved past the trees
How the rifts on
the East slowly lit up with the sunrise
I forgot how the
first rays filled the skin with an exotic satisfaction
I remember how
the willow trees made a rhythm with the wind
How the morning
breeze chilled and numbed all at once
How the lousy
morning talks slowly faded before breakfast
How the family
of six gradually became five or four
How the elder
sister got married and never came home
How the elder
brother impregnated a girl and ran away to the city
I remember how
the family got together every Christmas
I remember how the rain was welcomed by baby games
I mean the kids
played in the rain, and their parents made more
I remember the
long and short barefoot walks to the factory
I remember the
evening sneak out from the girls
Their mere intentions to get a hug in a dark alley or
beneath the trees
I forgot how it
felt to sit around the fire late at night
I forgot how it
was when mom told us of her travels
I remember the
fun talks, every night before a journey
I remember, the
sweet laughter, filled with a family warmth
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