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
Categories:
cannels, absence
Form: ABC