A book worth reading

Dreams of My Russian Summers

Flickering memories of the past;
Paris Boulevards, women in high heels,
cafes and romantic nights imbued her
skin, her hair, her long gazes westward.
We listened, without our ears,
we saw, without our eyes,
we understood, only by seeing her
tears when we threw the stone into the street,
the stone a soldier pressed into her hand.
A mother moves to a foreign land
thinking she has left all behind,
streetlights still flicker in Paris Boulevards,
cafes and shadows linger from romantic nights.
Treasures hide in attic chests, and
memories are never forgotten.