worthwhile memories
are involuntary,
defeated by death

many years later
filled with a precious essence–
petites madeleines

called into being,
abyss of uncertainty,
mind overtaken

palpitating
in the depths of my being–
memory evades

and suddenly the
memory revealed itself–
Sundays at Combray

all life’s things must have
intellectual profit–
grandmother’s presents

gifts of armchairs
collapse under newlyweds
but it’s art

in search of
time’s impossible journeys
eager for George Sand

daydreaming away
from the text, for pages–
Champi’s mystery

aching heart soothed–
a rare and artificial
exception