The breeze blows
Shaking me from my reverie. 
Fluttering the leaves
Blowing my hairs in front of me. 

I feel it on my eyelids, 
On the tip of my nose
Softly caressing my lips
Touching down to my soul. 

I see a child with
Soft little hands and furrowed brows,
Narrowed eyes and wrinkled nose,
Digging mud with careful strokes. 

Dirty hands, buckled up knees
Maybe searching a hidden treasure. 
( Maybe digging their own grave )
Or maybe just for pleasure.

Such sights spark my soul. 
Evoking fumes of memories
From long before, a young boy
With hands just like me,
Swinging with the winds
Hiding behind trees.

Digging fateless holes
While pouring out the mud. 
Getting dirty and scrawny
So, messily adorable.

" Seek me sister,
I bet you can't,
I am hiding so good
You will just have to give up ."

Never did any line
Sound more omnious than that. 
I still search in the soft bushes
For those soft little hands.
Dirty hands, buckled up knees. 
A young boy, just like me. 
Narrowed eyes and wrinkled nose
Digging mud with careful strokes.
Telling me to seek him up.

The wind blows again. 
Splattering dirt , Plumes of dust .
Memory lanes, often lead to pain.
Me, a beggar, treasures those
adorable souvenir grains.

The digging child gets up,
And runs up to his mother
Who gathers him in her hug
And takes him to their sweet abode.

And I feel the whispers of a soft windy touch. 
On my wet eyelids, on the tip of my nose
Reminding me to seek him up. 
Betting me that I never could. 
Breaking my heart
Down to my very soul...