Reflections (Poetry)

In the house of memory there is a scented candle lit
on each dark and narrow windowsill
one flame for every love who left —
went out into the forest in their turn
and followed the lost track that leads through time
to worlds unknown.

The steady glow from every spot of light spills out
rememberance — throws its thin nostalgic beam
across a snowy distance — stripes the ground
with borrowed gold — the colour born from hope
while fire still burns and shadows creep
to soothe eyes growing tired and old.

Habit lights those candles at each dusk —
ignited at a touch — the spark of thought
heats them with its everlasting match
unwavering the window’s long-squint stare
in search of figures — faint beneath far trees
imagines them reflected in the glass —
like ghosts coming home.