Citylights and Thoughtscapes

This city mellows down at night.
Nine o’clock strolls by the silent river,
and I adore the scent of the moist mud.
It has rained today.
The citylights pierce through the mist,
fairy dust shrouding the square.

My eager eyes wander to the grandfather clock—
it stands tall,
glorious in antiquity but tormented by time,
time.
Time is my greatest traitor.
It took my youth; it took everything.

I still remember that satin gown.
They haven’t stopped selling it, have they?
A bit further ahead, there it is—
gracious as a virgin bride,
gleaming in the moonlit night.
The mannequin looks beautiful.
I did too, once.

I suppose it’s stashed away in my mother’s trunk
with the thousand trinkets I had as a child.
They call it a time capsule now.
The children love it; it’s become their tradition.
But I never opened that trunk—some things are best hidden for life.
It lies in the attic, the wood conquered by moss,
Where sunlight refuses to fall.
It smells of nostalgia, of hope,
of things long forgotten, but never lost.

And then, there’s the mud.
Sunshine or rain, it’s always the same—
moist, sweet, thoughtful.
I pretend I never sat there by the river,
washing my feet bruised by the cobblestone;
It wasn’t my idea.

I try to see it all with different eyes,
but don’t you see?
All I want tonight,
is to be with you.