A Memory Song

Streets of old do mask

The love I have for an old task

The goal to find

The search to see

I am he who is behind

And he in front, is me.

Memory sings her final breath

As her visit brings her final death

And buried beneath the wandering trees

She becomes a bird

And finally flies free.

Can words fly?

Do they cling to the page?

Will they flee when I die?

Or become sooth and sage?

Not that, not that,

The wrong questions are of no more use than a mat

To tread on when seeking

To close a wound when bleeding

Ask me not for I say,

"Begone with your questions"

"Find your answers out in the day!"