From the banks of nostalgia,
recedes a ripple of shadows
on the translucent, moss-green waters,
disfiguring the present from the time.
Forgetting is a skin-deep wound,
it takes a while to grasp what
has been crooning over the senses,
is not merely the whiff of sandalwood.
You begin to let your questions
astray on the beaten towpath,
that once charted you out.