Crowded, noisy, smoky.
Everything is loud and fast.
We walk, then run.
We talk and laugh, then repent.
Nothing we are sure of.
Then in the mid of all troubles,
shines your face.
A memory of you.
I pump into an old picture.
Your far voice from a long way.
You make it different.
The noise subsides, and the smoke clears.
A clean place in the heart.
A sweet laugh on the phone.
Comes from far.
Years pass by.
Smoke and clouds, and beautiful flowers.
Troubles of the day, and everyday.
Then a sweet smile, a laugh on the phone.
A thought from far, from those old pictures.
There or not there, you are still here.
Not by face, not by breath.
By a hope and a misty dream.
Not for becoming real.
For getting through the clouds.
For the picture to keep its colors.
For the phone to have a ringing bell.
Go again into the crowd.
Inhale the smoke again.
While the picture is in your pocket.
And that thought, from far, is in your heart.