Anthology Poem #5 (submitted to Newyorker for contest)

                                       From an empty city, to another
 

    From an empty city, to another.
    I am a wanderer who is always on the way.
    With nothing left behind,
    Neither memory, nor the evidence of existence.

    Occasionally I think of you.
    Your soft voice still comes to my mind.
    But your appearance already dimmed as time goes by.
    So I let all of your memory go with the genial spring breeze.

    I did expect for true and warm connections with people.
    When I was still young.
    When I still wished upon the shooting stars.
    When I shed my tears generously for all gorgeous living beings.
    When you were still here with me.

    At the end, I am alone.
    From an empty city, to another.
    I am a wanderer who is always on the way.
    With no memory left behind.
    Neither your voice, nor the arc of your lips when you smile.