Friday, 7 August 2009

Distortion of memory

Springtime. Or autumn, maybe.
A soft breeze passed like a whishper through the garden.
Light green trapeze artists and their white maidens were joyfuly swinging then, birds singing, kids laughing, sun sparkles all around that afternoon...
Was it like that? No one can tell now.
Memory is a wall that reflects the shadows of that dubious past.