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Along the whistling breeze, the golden sun you bask in after a spar, the light droplets falling upon us, laying down, the gold of your hair like the leaves of my homeland, rustling in a melody I've heard nowhere else but in your voice.
Here, laying in this roof, wondering if anything will ever matter in the paths set upon us.
But a simple glance from you is enough for me to know.
"Is the mighty deliverer accepting defeat?"
No. Not yet.
I will keep doing this until the gold in my life is not spilled blood upon the ground, until its not mine running along my veins, until its your eyes, your hair, the sun over us over and over again, the leaves of my homeland.
One day, I will show you that orange bloom that reminds of a much kinder place.