Melancholia

I remember you
as tall grasses
begin to grow
in the vacant lot
in-front of my abode

They seem to whisper,
your sweet name
as the gentle breeze
begins to caress
their green blades and delicate blossoms.

As their seeds begin to fly -
so comes the memories of you:
Your face, every lines of it;
Your laughs, every sound of it;
Your sighs, every echoes of it;
Your silence, every cry of it...

How come that even a love
so sweet, so delicate, so true
will soon come to an end?
Why some beautiful things
do not last longer like the four seasons
in full cycle?

Nevertheless, as seasons end
They will come back
and there are signs of them
approaching nearer --
Just like your memories
I know that they will come back
Even if sometimes
My heart and soul shoo
them away...