As the years passed away,
The past is like a bouquet;
A blurry mix of colors and hues,
And just like yesterday's news,
We remember only a few.
But the past is never dead,
Some stay in our head;
Some we set them apart,
These stay in our heart.
Like still remembered dances,
And questions without answers,
The years reduce to traces,
Like so many unanswered prayers.
As the years passed away,
The past is like a bouquet,
Trying not to wilt today.