Groping for Your Memory

Enchanted by the fragrance of abandoned flowers—
one cannot cross the garden of thorns alone.

Torn by the wounds of thorns,
am I crying out for you?

Moving away in silence, standing still—
the tears of the person within cannot be stopped.

Forgetting uncertainty,
have I taken your hand?

Even wanting to forget you—
escape is impossible, like a cowardly assassin.

In silence still,
am I groping for your memory?