The knick knacks we carry
or push throughout the years
like dung beetles do with shit,
treasures without weight
a delight to hold and cherish.
From country to home,
from house to house,
from relationship to relationship
more and more
they become one heavy burden in time.
Good times kept in little souvenirs,
mementoes, each and every one of them
light and trivial, a smile on a beach,
a hand in hand, a kiss, a hand on a shoulder,
a note that says I love you, swan feathers.
A note that says goodbye, stones,
shells from foreign tide lines.
We push it all up and up the hill
and it always rolls
back down and down, crashing us gently to pieces.