Of Days Gone By

What happens to our memories when time passes over things?

A yellowed handwriting, a photographic trace — as if the canvas itself were remembering what should long since have been forgotten. The layers do not speak; they bear witness.

What breaks out of the dark are not quotations, but remnants — the gold sparse, almost reluctant, as if time itself had decided what would remain.

It was a glorious past. And it may be seen.