Suburbs

When I hear the voices of little children early at dusk just before twilight comes with their faces cloaked by the shawl of innocence waving goodbye to the setting sun, my heart leaps for joy; as I watch agape as they jump, chatter and clatter with such intense vigour on the open green fields beyond the moors outside the curtilage of their homes in the serene suburbs of the countryside for a trifling thing as waving goodbye to the setting sun. From afar, it’s startling from my view how they form a ring of troth joining hands together and roundabout in clockwise shift, sing merry songs while the setting sun seems to wave back at them with a smile… Perhaps, it appears as it seems a common ritual in the suburbs of the countryside as often as I journey back there, I find little children welcoming the full moon, waving goodbye to the setting sun. And in their ecstatic pulsations, I feel reborn from my mother’s milky womb, submersed in innocence—enchanted—nescient of my whereabouts that keeps me wondering what excites them so. Then, as I look beyond the horizon, I remember I was once as they are— innocent and oblivious—without shame and scars of sorrow; for I too, with friends and peers welcomed the moon and waved goodbye to the setting sun.