Whispers of innocence,
deep beyond the light
of memory.
Faces,
etched with betrayal,
tower among strong dark pillars.

Woodsmoke in the distance.
All around, swaying grass,
and the gentle nodding of purple heads,
adorned with clusters of
fluttering jewels;
working bees,
and the peaceful, silent butterflies
you chased,
when the crops burst forth
in sweet, sustaining gold.

These things give little comfort now,
as dawn reflects
on bright silver blade.
Your tears dry
and your pleading fades to helpless sobs.
In the hush,
the death stroke falls.

Seeds and shoots and beating hearts,
young child,
broken body left behind,
is your soul in the green blood of your home?
Beliefs are dark and light.
One drew blackness 'round,
but yours,
born in thepure, gentleness of a child,
knows that you left
too few footprints on this earth.
Small marks in mud
that are wiped away by rains
and time,
small marks that would have
traced one small life's course
across an ancient land,
truth of deep breaths of sun-tinged air.

If the choice was remade,
the knife had danced another path,
more butterflies been pursued,
we'd never have known you,
your spirit blending silently with history;
into the void of yesterday.
Yet quiet you'd rest,
no speculation echoing around your grave,
you would be whole and
at peace.