The City

The night city glows from within with extinguished windows.
It is not made of stone or concrete –
Its streets are paved with the pages upon which we were silent.
The cobblestones – from the scraps of our nightly touches,
And the streetlights here – from the glances we failed to catch in time.

There is a house here where dawn lasts forever.
On the windowsill – a cup from which no one drinks, but it is always warm.
And a garden where, instead of flowers, there are lines of our poems that grew from the silence.
There grows a jasmine that heard how we breathed into one another.

On the central square – a mirror that does not reflect, but remembers.
You look into it – and it speaks with a voice
That even time has not managed to forget.

There are little streets where you walk barefoot over the fragments of dreams.
It does not hurt – because they were all yours once.

A library where every book is not a book,
But a memory that has not yet come to pass, but you already feel it.

And I am there – not as a memory, but as an architect,
Who day by day restores what was forgotten.
I touch the walls so they do not crumble,
I rewrite the signs on the doors – so that you always know where to return.

This city lives only as long as I remember.
Even if all the maps are destroyed.
Even if you call it a dream –
I will still wait for you at the crossroads of our tracks.