Perhaps it is the curse of photographs

That they long for the future. See us cheering there,

Unaware we delighted in the past,

Impatient for life – how bright our faces were!

Smooth as retrospect, as Vie en rose.

Cider traps sunlight, shell sounds trap the sea;

And there were we, enraptured by them both.

We should have known that, even as we posed,

Some God had had enough. Without caption

Our wordless smiles are muted epitaphs.

In images, we see, we longed for more:

And perhaps it is the curse, that those who stare

At photographs, now see what they have lost.



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