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外链地址
http://www.eemp3.com/audiofile/db95bb235828043b8014b2fb395a37e0.mp3
点击复制She walks where the walls once were,
pointing past the parking lot
to a ballroom built of brick and marble.
Her finger finds the phantom door,
traces terraces that time erased.
I follow, writing down the addresses
of buildings only breathing in her mind.
She walks where the walls once were—
mapping monuments no map remembers.
Tuesday, tenth of March, we meet
at the corner where a cathedral stood.
She speaks of steeples, stained glass,
the weight of bells that blessed the block.
Now there's a bank, a bus stop bench.
She smooths her sleeve and shows me
how the entrance arched, how angels hung above.
She walks where the walls once were—
mapping monuments no map remembers.
Someone should sketch the streets she sees,
preserve the palaces she points to,
before her memory becomes the monument—
the last remaining remnant standing.
Friday, and the weather's fair.
We pace the paths of former gardens,
grand estates now gravel, gone.
She recites the names of families,
their fortunes, failures, final days.
I carry all her cartography—
an atlas only we can read.
She walks where the walls once were—
mapping monuments no map remembers.
She walks where the walls once were.
She walks where the walls once were.