qarrtsiluni

The children sing songs of times long gone
and they play games of forgotten wars.

The sea cannot be seen from here.
The colors are broken, made of wood,

the children use them as white weapons
sharpened like pencils, daggers to survive.

Listen to the breeze, far out, elsewhere,
where green boats patiently await the end.

The sea cannot be seen from here.
It exists only in the minds of children,

small drawings of unreal landscapes,
the sky a color not included in this case.

Their small hands draw conclusions in gray,
the paper assumes the depth of clouds.

by Ernesto Priego of Never Neutral