It hangs. By a thread. It hangs.
I look at the crying boy in front of me, silent, I stare at him as he drowns.
My fingers reach out and touch glass.
Something is wrong.
Something is very wrong.
I look at the crying boy in front of me, silent, and he mouths ‘help me’.
Is this a memory?
Who is this child?
His features, I know.
I look at the crying boy in front of me, silent, I feel a dampness on my cheek.
It hangs. By a thread. It hangs.
Little by little I see the thread burning away.
Soon it will fall.
Soon I will lose the boy in front of me.
I look at the crying boy in front of me, silent, and I mouth ‘help me’.
Is this a memory?
This mirror, I see it hanging, even though I remember it shattered on the floor.
A dream in words 