Why would I want to revisit the old days?

Why would I want to revisit the old days?
What on earth have I to find among the tired patios?
A silence that I have since replaced
with other cicada chants?

Let it stay that way,
as I've managed to almost forget the shapes,
the voices and the days.

The only token of that age that I tolerate these days
is the odd yellowish paperback,
scribbled with plenty of silly ideas.

I let those shadows grow as dark and fast as they wanted,
and it worked, in their own ambitions,
they just collapsed, and were thus left behind
where they could do no harm for a long time.

What am I to find?
Postcards from countries I did not visit?
Love letters that were never written?
Drugs that went untested?

No, you know what would happen, right?
It would be the same old streets again, but the spirits,
they have vanished, their winters now
belonging to other generations.
Yes, it would always be the same city,
and I already know it by heart.

I will gain nothing by shedding salt on the wounds.
The years are gone for good. Destroyed.
Ruins nobody wants to visit,
not because they're in the middle of a violent country,
but because they hold nothing of interest.

At most, they tell the story of a very slow motion escape.
But if I go back there again,
it will be the same fountain, the same dropped oranges
rotting uncared for.

Well, yeah, the stairs will be a bit more worn off,
bur that does not warrant the train ticket, to be honest.