I’m turning in a slow motion
a photographic film losing its color.
From my house bricks
it rains with memories,
spread like sea salt on the shore.
Colors gather between clouds
floating over trees,
white cherry flowers sway,
their shadow on grandma’s window.
The roof is covered with old snow
and lost letters ashes,
walls are whitewashed
with pale butterfly wings.
I’m shaking in silence my white hair,
it falls in the dust without footprints,
my arms, my head, my smile drop down,
washed away in the moonlight.
The last white morning stars
brought back into my life