Memories, don’t go to that city. You bring with you the weight of the past, playing with the melancholy that stains the heart. You bring an ocean of tears, drowning me in agony, and I feel as though I never truly die. You kill me with your presence—burn me, slay me—but you leave nothing but extremes, infinite lines that stretch beyond comprehension. I long to be left alone, untethered, unaccompanied. So, memories, don’t go to that city.
You lie in every photograph, in every statue, in every corner of the past. You chase the one who seeks to escape you, a haunting, magical presence that draws me in again and again. You are the preface of hope, the forgotten prologue to a story whose pages are already stained with sorrow. You are the autumn interlude in the story of life, a time that fades and leaves only silence. Memories, please, don’t go to that city.
Memories, don’t go to that city. No! Don’t touch him, for he is already so lonely. The castle of spirits lies in ruins, shattered into the remnants of what was once a vibrant, living domain. Your images, like virtual traps, entangle his soul, lost in the labyrinth of unknown phases, a maze he cannot escape. You haunt him in ways words cannot express. So, memories, don’t go to that city.
Memories, don’t do this to that city. A heart bleeds even in this moment of fleeting joy. You dig into the silence, the sacrifice, the solace, but who am I to please, in this place of desolation? I burn in the hell of questions that ignite no answers, as you pour into me like rivers falling into the ocean. The story of life begins with pain—the chapter of suffering, the pages of disdain. My life, ruined for a thousand others, leaves me with nothing but the pall of sadness that haunts my days and nights. Memories, don’t go to that city.
Memories, don’t go to that city. A fable trembles in this damned cemetery, where nature itself weeps. I weep with the monsoon, as the rain falls like the tears I cannot shed. I am a sea, tempted by the full moon, drawn to a force I cannot control. You linger in the ashes of cigarettes, in the mist that rises from the wickets. You live on in these poems, in the letters I write, tethered to the ink of past pain. And on you go, haunting, never letting go.