Unpainted face in a future memory.
A boy, or possibly a man, I don’t know which.
He’s too blurry, his eyes are hazy.
Dark with anticipation,
Of what he does not yet know.

He sees the world through a foxhole.
Not like the rest of us,
He is special, he is pure.
The insight of ages runs through his veins.

The past is beautiful to him,
And the future is resonant.
Perhaps because he exists in both,
Simultaneously.

He creates a world around me that I have never seen,
But yet it feels like home.
Is it simply déjà vu?
Or is fate telling me a secret?


He plays his games in the depths of my mind,
To confuse, to swindle, to enchant me.
Or to remain dormant, until we meet again,
For the first time…