Dicken's Dublin

It’s always the same:
Whenever I hear Dicken’s Dublin,
My heart is squeezed by the past;
The familiar pain rises
Through my trachea –
But can’t find a way out.

It’s always the same:
The remembrance of idle days,
The warmth of afternoon sun,
The children’s voice,
Mixing with my silent one.

It’s always the same:
The silly silly smiles;
My hand, on my nape,
My head, on my pillow.
And the passing of the afternoon sun...

It’s always the same:
Always. Old ways.
We remember them
We try to let them
Off the hook
To disappear with the sun.

But then,
I hear Dicken’s Dublin again.
And the familiar pain rises,
Though this time,
Through my
Fingers.