When the air is calm and warm the white man would tell us stories.
We would lay down and listen.
The tall green fingers holding us gently.
The stories always change.
He told us of his adventures.
He lets out a sigh a the story changes.
Ever changing.
There is a rhythm to the story, making it a song.
The beat comes from the blue reflection.
She moves willingly, gracefully.
The light begins to fade.
Soon our story must come to an end.
The blue reflection beckons us back.
We must go.
The white man slowly turns pink as the light begins to fade, soon he will be grey.
We sit up, out of the fingers.
Looking back we see the prints they hold, tomorrow we will return on the blue reflection, just as the white man always returns from his black slumber.
I will always remember the days when we go back.
Back in the blue reflection to the fimiliar green fingers.
The white man will always be there, never growing old, never growing tired.
He will tell his stories around the world for all to embrace.
But are they not all the same?