In the arms of the sorrowful midst of ages,
I stood before an album of photographs,
Flipping over the tattered pages,
Fumbling through pictures,
Agony.
The first page were my childhood and my family,
Beneath the yellowish ancient photographs of then,
Was a tale encasing many,
Pain beyond suffering,
Torn.
My father in the high heavens far away from me,
My mother buried deep within the earth,
A hurt always will be,
Swallowing my saliva,
Tears.
The photographs were a painting of time long ago,
A memory that weaved passion in us,
Binding together joy and sorrow,
Whispers of past,
Devoured.
