Memories

Furrows of my mind,
Lying straight as strings,
In which I sow keenly
Memories of you with me.
Bygone and happy things.

I nurture them with love;
Salt-water do they drink.
I keep them from the frost,
For they must not be lost --
They are my only links.

The seasons, they pass by
Each with its own trail
Of happiness and woe;
But my memories do not grow.
They only grow frail.

Lord, when shall I reap
Fruits of years long past?
Shall I even live to see
Just one grow into a tree --
How long will it all last?

Later, I realized;
Much late, too late, indeed;
Memories ought not to be sowed.
From them, nothing is owed,
For the tree lies all in the seed!