Among Their Pictures
In my memory I’m the one who always wanders
Within their pictures: the stretched black
Strips around the gravestone photograph,
The standing twisted flowers,
The burning candles under their icons.
From inside the scene: suddenly, on
The white margins, I see their fingerprints
Which now appear along with their laughing voices;
Their stifled whispers are breaking me.
Oh, how different it should all be
With them, they should be running
With their warm breath panting,
And not inanimate and flaccid
Like they are now, without their lives.