WRINKLES

All that is bent cannot be rectified
Because there is no time I could
return to.

Countless wrong presents
are archived in the memories of the living
And fast images and words persistently return.
Only the death of the wounded
can erase them
never repare them
only make them tragically forgoten
lists of names and times which
noone recognizes anymore and
aches which stopped aching
although they were never cured.

There was a path which should have been taken
and who knows all that could have been
and didn't.
Sometimes it seems to me
that you loughed happier
before you met me.