The walking dude

The walking dude

Silhouetted against the
sinking purple sun,
through the dust laden road
comes with measured strides
the walking dude…

His eyes shining amber,
his breath deep as ocean,
his gaze eating horizons
and his smile cold as a coffin…

The walking dude takes out
his ancient harmonica,
slowly he plays a tune
that blows out the living lights
of those who listens to it…

His worn out boots,
his torn sweatshirt,
his moth eaten jeans
and the deep lines on his face,
nothing betrays his age,
for he comes from the crevices
of timeless emptiness …

And what we saw
the last of him
was the trail of dust
that he left behind
his grey shadow…

Memory

Memory

It was 2am…
this time I heard it clearly,
the crying in the bathroom.
It was coming rhythmically
as if someone is playing
a low tune with a harmonica.

With a shudder,
I sat on the bed,
watching the bathroom door
in the semidarkness,
thinking that I am alone
in this big old house.

Again came the sound,
the sad wailing of what
I thought is a child,
and that sound was
vaguely familiar.

Then something
broke in me, and
the memory erupted
in my no longer
living sense.

I recognized my own
gasped crying of
twenty years ago,
when I drowned in
that bathtub made of
Chinese porcelain.

Where am I now?