On the edges of memory are quaint little corners of the world where the old and the beautiful collide with quiet gentleness. The lanes are filled with the aromas of freshly brewed coffee and baking bread. Strains of half forgotten songs in foreign languages float down the narrow streets, flirting with the breeze. Poets scribble on yellowing pages as they sit on rickety chairs, pen in one hand, mug in the other. Artists set up gallery and studio on the smooth cobblestones, capturing on unmarred canvas the fleeting light and beauty that only the dreamers can see.
If I could steal just one moment with you, I would press my lips to yours and remind you with a caress of these places. And I would hope that you would see that we belong there, and together we'd embark on a plane there to dance on the antique streets by the incandescent light of ancient lamp posts.
No comments:
Post a Comment