Sweet child

Let it melt the ice,
liquify the moments
to water in flow of child…

Do I need?
Yes, smoke by mugwort
to restock what was lost to me.

Time turns
limitless, affluent,
still always, ever,
ending untimely.

Nomore trenches,
nomore landmines.

Here I sit in awe,
making moments last
a lifetime –

Still air over deep blue lake,
so the mountains can finally see
how beautiful they are;

silence of birds in the forest,
their songs the birth of myth.

I cast a line and catch fragrance
of roasted nuts (I was eight years old),
still priceless, a survivor
despite the darkness.

Nomore landmines,
nomore trenches,
nomore wasteland:

you have come home,
sweet child,
just in time…