Sidewalks

I’ve seen them passing there,
walking as if they’re ghosts.
Arid thoughts in fertile air,
but who’m I to say so?
 
Their looks I sometimes snatch
to pause them in their passing.
In my eyes some life to catch,
but ghosts have no use stopping.
 
Might the ghosts be brought to living
if my stares were made of death?
For in what heaven would they be drifting
when their end they’ve already met?
 
I find my ghost in wond’ring
on life, those moments past,
for my ghost is always foll’wing
and I’ll never know how fast.
 
Still, my life is made of living,
ghost-like in white lies,
blessed for not forgetting
the heaven before my eyes.