The Old Photograph

These are your roots.
She said: your family.
And I stare at them.
Until my eyes burn,
From lack of blinking.

Stare at the faces,
Black and white smiles,
In the old photograph.
Frozen long ago,
In a moment in time.

These people are long dead.
Gone before I was born,
And yet, they feel
Strangely alive,
As if across distance

They have travelled,
And across time.
It seems so improbable.
How could they be dead,
And yet alive?

Here, but not here?
And suddenly,
I understand why.
I am alive.
And I am here.

And I am them.

14 thoughts on “The Old Photograph

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