Inspired oblivion

I wake up 50 years later,

thinking to myself 

that I even notice life passing by...

I didn't try to hold on the time 

but I recognize it .

 It can be strict or kind ,

dependings on the mood of our seasons .

  So tricky and elusive...

I like to seat on that old wooden bench ,

hearing its voice telling me the story 

of all those moments of  presence ...

  Broken heart of a mysterious grieving white lady ,

or a few desillusioned ectoplasms  who never managed

to be poets...

 but there is no longer the soothing canopy of the wise tree

so forgiving of the insolent dogs that lifted their paws...

 By the time ,it reached the age it could no longer breathe .

  Towers of glass and stone has donned the guise 

of concrete men in the rush...

  My poor tree was cut down because it was a threat 

to the peace ...

 Flowering branch to bury a spring romance .

 and you my dear bench when are you going  

to end up in planks ?

 I'm going to fall asleep again and go back 50 years...

I take the hand of this white lady who has barely left

childhood behind ...

 Our friend the elegant linden which bears 

our promise engraved on its skin ,

 has not forgotten us ...

 You were my sister ,gone so soon ,

before you could even pick the first rose of delight...

  Let's sit down  my dear ! 

It still has so many other stories to tell us !

 Eventhough we all think we knew them ...

 even it's 50 years too late .

Probably that's what some peope call love .

And in a final breath of inspired oblivion,

dementia  will finally set me free...