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The good old days lost like the ancient city of artatica, concealed in growth of youthful strenght. Yet fresh like new mead it is in my memories. By day we go sand- molding by the eve we go to the field hunting hoppers. By night, stil we are seen around grandpa light hearing tales of unknown source. During moony nights, circles are formed, playing the game of the lost child of the widowed woman. And at times we were driven by the magic of the great kelekele, running and enjoy being cheased. In the morn' we ran out of door like a cascading waterfall with body bare as adam and yet lacking nutrents of shame. The rabits, crikets, palm cannels,playing games of the koto shells, hunting wild berries in june. All these are bye so soon, covered in the inreversable change of physical growth. Its just once for each stage, be the best whatever stage you are. (c) copyright faith .u. Edoja.sun 30 mar.2014

Copyright © | Year Posted 2014

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