Like a raging river, the past is purged,
Vague memories drowned beyond reflection.
Just out of mind's reach they hover and surge,
Waiting to be plucked from oblivion.
Synapsed, a lone stimulus to a sense
Evokes an elusive recollection.
Long ago the mind's eye grasped its essence,
Storing it for future intervention.
A fragrance prompts, a color stimulates,
Soft silk soothes, spice is piquant on the tongue;
An old familiar love song relates
To memories saved then, when we were young.
Which will I yield: sight, scent, taste, hearing, touch?
None, I say. I need them all very much.
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