Passerby

Two shadows stand under the silver lamps of the opposite building.
Along the way, flowers blur in shifting colors outside the car window.
Across the sea bridge, distant mountains fade like passing clouds.
Between palm leaves, summer whispers layer upon layer.

Neither the journey nor time has taken a rest.
Hurrying forward—by train, or on foot—
The luggage brims with echoes of earlier days,
As I step through spring, autumn, winter, and summer.

In the flicker of coming and going, sparks flare for a moment—
Pages turn at corners, corners turn like pages.
Some memories never belonged to the faraway,
Some remnants never belonged to the past.

In a fleeting glance, they are merely passersby—
And each of them remains a shadow beneath my tracks.