If we could see the origins
We may understand;
If we could return
We may remember.

The teaching and effort of all, of all,
Philosophies,
Science,
Technologies,
Arts,
And
Poetry,
Is to return us to our origins.
But, we can't go back as we were,
We only can become,
Merely become...
Ghosts.

By ghost,
Everything that has just died out
Will rise again;
Every moment that has just drifted away
Will come back again.
And we shall return
And we will remember too.

That is a love of memories.

You are my ghost
When I only can think of you
While you are away;
I am your phantom,
When I am gone out of your life totally,
And I only left just a little, a little,
Tinge of disturbances in you,
Which will haunt you unexpectedly from afar,
When my inhabitancy in your body
Has been deranged.

And I will become a ghost of your traces.
When the night falls,
The wind is strong,
I come back to you,
Lingering around the place
You have been through in the day,
To pick up the sense of you,
To breathe a tinge of your face,
To touch a flake of your skin,
Yet, I have to disappear before the daybreak,
I cannot let you see me
When the sun rises.

So, love, if you dream of me
Who comes back to you
When the moon is high,
I want to tell you,
It's not a dream,
It's true,
I did come back to you, while
You were sleeping, and the moon was high,
Walking me through the way
Towards where we were parted
And I will see you there once more
In the origin
Of our memories.