A little boy woken with a smile on a windy day
gazes out of the widow wishing to fly some day.
Birds chipping, sun shining and out the antic comes his kite.
Tied to the spool, his sister helps him launch it in the sky.
Up they take it and higher it goes only to be cut by pro.
The siblings stand beside hand in hand as they watch it go.
Their kite at first, now a tiny speck before it disappears.
A nomad kite in the sky. Happy to break free of its strings or, lonely with no one to guide? Smiling as it aims to reach the highest of the majestic blue enveloped in the arms of the teasing wind. Or, frightened of the disdained gust, leaving the kite intimidated at every twirl. A flock of birds pass by. Do extend their friendly wings or, behold the kite as an itinerant?
Some answers, we, standing below will never know. Yet, we shall formulate one with the image we want to see and, sentences we want to hear. Knowing what appears may never be true. A tear may not always imply sadness, just the way a loud laughter does not guarantee a heart that has never seen pain.
