or that old
woman
are just
pages
of their
life diaries,
crumpled
fragments
of two
itineraries that started
a while
back
and lasted
a while
and they’re
about to come
to an end
Now a
celebratory rest
is served
in flutes of crystal
with their
glass so thin,
so fragile,
that it can
break any time
in myriads
of shards,
glittery
leftovers
of a
traveller life’s impressions
whose
journal will vanish
in quiet
oblivion
once with
traveller’s body
