by Brijida Prano

Déjà vu

When you were here,
The weather was dreary, biting cold, rainy.
The wet wind stung me like a thousand needles.
I thought of you.

I saw the gray sky, majestically fierce in its darkness.
Its turbulence mirrored my thoughts.
The asperity of my wool sweater disagreed with my skin,
While I inhaled the gracious scent of dead leaves and my perfume.
Not everything in life can be pleasant.

At the same time this year,
The weather is dreary, biting cold, rainy.
The wet wind stings me like a thousand needles.
I think of you.

I swing open the low creaking gate
And walk slowly along the leaf covered path
Along which white and gray stones pepper the dark lawn.
The sky is fiercely gray, the clouds menacing.
Its tempestuousness mirrors my thoughts.
The blood-crimson rose dangles in my left hand,
The thorns disagreeing with my skin,
While I inhale the sweet aroma of dying roses and withering flowers.
I sigh, thinking that not everything in life…

This has happened before, just like this, only something is missing.

I stop walking and bend down in front of a white stone.
Raindrops trickle down my cheeks as I read your engraved name.
Each moment we were together passes slowly through my memory
In the moment of my placing the crimson rose on your grave.

This is déjà vu, only…
Without you.