Every morning he'd come and sit beside me,
A beautiful little thing,
Dancing and singing,
His small lips glued to a flute,
Lost,
As if in admiration of life itself.
Sometimes he'd talk to me
In a language I couldn't comprehend,
And I'd litsen -
I'd litsen to his eyes,
Trying to get a glimpse of the universe that lay beyond childish mischiefs,
Of a power too vast to be trapped within mother's ropes.
I watched him leave,
His grief shadowed by purpose,
A smile shrouding his conflicts.
Confusion, pain, longing,
He was prepared for love,
Attachment came without warning.
That evening, he sat beside me and cried.
Just like the child he was.
It was autumn when he left,
And the last of my leaf fell with him.
