Way back in my twenties, there was a song I used to love.
It had a certain groove, a rhythm in the night.
Every word pierced through me like it was written by design. The singer’s voice was soft as silk,
I had no choice but to resign.
I closed my eyes and held up my hands
when it cursed through my veins.
I was finally able to let go of all the pain.
Now I can’t remember why this song meant so much to me.
Was it just a passing whim, flying past me in the breeze?
Or was it something deep engraved in who I used to be?
That’s the risk you have to take, forgetting carelessly.
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- På samma tema: “When You Are Old” av William Butler Yeats
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