Sharon Rashbam Prop

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Under the bridge

Sharon Rashbam Prop

Forget the past,
people say,
leave it behind,
beyond the pale.
Let him be,
the little boy sitting there,
with his box of unfulfilled promises,
lying there beside him,
promises like toys never given
roll in the dust at his feet.
Here’s a mother’s hand made of red plastic,
and a dusty paternal arm lying by his side,
the remnants of its thread-like muscles
dispersed here and there.
That arm never embraced,
never touched, and thus hardened,
and became grey. Look!
Do you remember your little childhood “blankie”?
How you loved to roll  it between your fingers
yearning for touch.
Look, there’s an old tricycle,
one of its wheels slowly turns,
its screech hurting your ears,
golden dust lies heavy on it
the years gone by.
Leave your memories alone, look ahead
they tell you, and tell you again,
but memories,
like veins,
carry old blood towards your heart.
It absorbs it
and sends it out again,
and whether you listened attentively
or have forgotten,
from time to time you’ll step in back there,
After all only one step, one move
separates you two.
And so you come closer, bend down near him,
his empty look is so familiar to you
you and him,
let him look into your eyes
wordlessly, it will remind you
what you asked for,
what you hoped for.
Your scream is the bridge into another world
but it never received a response,
remaining hanging there forever

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