You can’t touch what is in my suitcase.
If you reach for pictures,
they disappear and your hand
lands on its sides, images
caressing your skin, fading out and
vanishing like the smoke.

You see life moving
across the white in-lining.
The births and birthdays,
Families and holidays,
Loves and weddings,
Deaths and funerals.

You watch the whole nation
on a long protest march
creating the waves, sea of people
whilst dancing down the streets.

You hear laughter, horns and whistles,
the beating of pots and pans.
Pieces of revolution,
caught in kaleidoscope,
a mosaic of memories
instead of a diary and
nothing else to declare.