Remembering the Past
Remembering the past my mind become,
worst as if my love is dot,
to add the final touch as the,
flower that I lost.
To be feeble minded, thee I transferred,
to a second with my narrow ring,
often the points to be own or lost,
like "a new flaming dart"
but my past speaks something,
with its waves in my mind to be blast.
A praise for her may not be sufficient,
thee there is a double cross,
the moon and stars may help her
not to remember the living past.
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