In the beginning
was not the word,
nor the sound,
but the memories.

They shone solely at night
out of the lovers’ wavy blanket,
from which fireflies sparkled
(one of them said “please, leave the lights off”),
the room became a dark swamp with shiny, soft bodies,
a lit sky of lost children
unwilling to find their way back home.

In the morning, the fireflies darkened,
crumpled old pages from a sacred book,
ordinary winged bugs
crushed to the ground,

thus, too many ripped wings underneath the sole
while something stubbornly shines once the eyes are shut.

In the beginning
were the memories.

In the end,
oblivion.