Whistling on the way.

It was so long that time I recall.

There were some pieces of things which I saw.

Some little sounds at night.

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Trapped.

It is by the will of fate alone that life should begin as such. Confined to a place without walls or borders, without guards or oversight outside of one’s own governance. Perhaps it is a luxury not befitting one which life has doomed to a single place. Perhaps the blessing one should seek after all is to never have the ambition to chase the greener pastures which always lay beyond.

The remembered dead.

Long have the dead here rested, sleeping, dreaming in unending worlds, eager to rise when the time would come if only as spirits in the night. Those of blood and kin await to dance for those dead eyes, to offer drink and food and shelter for the weary woken dead. And so they come every now and then to see what they left behind, to bless or curse their kin or foe before returning to their graves.

Soon the season.

The feel of it sits upon the air, that time where all is still and quiet. Where reflection can be done and the to and fro of that which seems in every moment to be of importance, stops and huddles in its place. The wood is being collected, the meat all stored and salted and the final harvest will soon be reaped as we wait for it to come.

The step

The first step stumbles,

As the first signs of youth and inexperience show,

But one is not born on their knees.