The sound of class,
The bench with names and faces,
The smell of the maroon sweater
Worn all thru winter with
just a few washes in between...
The innocence of thought
And the naivity of reason,
The eternity of hope,
The insane, expectant season...
The smell of Mocha,
The strawberry hukka, to be precise;
The silver earring with maroon stone
The soft grey section-C t-shirt,
The evenings in the park...
The moment that is now
Has just lost its recency:
Each second is entering into the past.
The present, if there is anything like that-
Is long gone even before you realise-