a breeze whips the bamboo leaves like waves across a green ocean;
memory weighs heavy like the humid air that year.
not my body does now falter,
it is the past that makes me old;
if I would still be young,
my mind would be blank like the sky on a clear day;
I would run out into this world
yearning for impressions to fill the void.
now, coming of age, I hardly move on,
because wherever I roam memory comes into my way.