Somewhere along the road on which we were walking, br The little path we used to follow religiously every morning, br The street with the fancy iron bars and birch trees and neatly kept houses, br Someone had planted a memory. br br The memory lay concealed within a tiny cardboard box, br Lying there contentedly, wrapped in several layers of tissue paper, br The words written lovingly in shiny blue ink, br Inscripted onto the parchment until the rain destroyed the box br And washed the memory away.