Clovers, big and small,
Soft and rich in luckiness.
Trust would form in us,
Connected like the leaves.

Mud, seemed as smooth as marble,
Splashed over melted chocolate.
Although built brick by brick,
Creativity sped it up.

Tiny lost details used to come from our hands.
Forever fun in bending paper.
Letters flipped over by pen.

Together like the stars and the moon.
Raining sparkles, we were one . . .

Until mountains crashed the charming greens,
Greens filled with pure luck.
They shouted and cried,
Suffocating through day and night.

Nature disobeyed the mud,
Right beneath our feet.
Smoothness was swept away,
By the howling wind.

We got split up into stages.
One lower, one higher.
The mountain became uneven.
One smooth, one spiked.

Great deep cracks began to appear in our circle.
And now it seems that even our stepping stones differ.

No feelings, only doubts.
It has been a long, long time . . .

My dear old friend,
How do you feel about me?