There was this day
in the pretty month of may ,
Forty three degrees
in the shadow of two trees.
In that memories of meadow
whenever I slept ,
darker become the shadow .
That shadow
Imagine that shadow !
whenever I recall ,
why does it become darker ?
which memory is its marker . ?
It is you , and not the meadow,
people of my eye , not the shadow.
I see you
and the pupil become darker ,
I glimpse of you
is the memory ,and the marker.