It’s like a secret message written in invisible ink.
We’ve been totally deaf to it
since then, no one has ever
heard it, believe me.
We can’t have a smell of it,
but it’s surely tangibly here, by heart,
our own heart only.
It’s your grandmother
telling some stirring tale
about her early days,
not that every part of it
is of laudable act done by her,
clearly including
those dullest acts
done by her.
Here there is no substantial body
of your grandmother
and you are not the single being,
rather it seems like you
are two different things.
The older one is your here
and the younger one is your there,
you as being the older one telling
your own mind
the story of yours
as being the younger one.
We are like a dog sniffing
and searching for a thing long been missing.
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