cindy diaz

A fly flies across half the forest

1 　　He is dead. Maybe he's still alive. One can live in obscurity. 　　I know he will never come again. 　　Whenever the iron sheet creaks, whenever I see white bark, or see someone holding a handkerchief, my thoughts run wild, and I am reminded of something I did not see. Maybe I should think about the things that caught my eye, but I dare not. Who can tell me how long I have to think to remember the tragedy? What can I do to erase the memory of it from my mind?