The days of slate and chalk,
Are not easy to erase,
They hold memories,
Of my childhood,
Of friends and wild escapades,
Of orchards and meadows,
Brimming with fruit and fleur,
Of gurgling springs,
Bordering imaginary chateaus.

I look at the slate now,
In my middle days,
Tracing imaginary lines,
Wiped away,
I wonder how far I've...