Echoes of a son

 
 
I took him back and he looked at me.
His eyes spoke loud and I sighed and went away.
Nothing I could say.

I live in this garden now.
But he still plays and races and laughs
And I can see him.

Is reality a product of my eyes?
Or is my mind  the true source
Of all mankind and all is what I need it to be.

Is time a process that belies the truth?
That my son still plays here?
My eyes lie but my mind knows better.

Time is just a trick designed to fetter
Our hopes and desires.
I choose to live when things were better.

 
 

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