Motherland Reminiscence

Longing

In twilight’s blaze, the sky burns low like quiet fire with a molten glow. The sea reflects that golden flame, yet in the boat, he's still no name. A hat of shade, a posture still, he cradles thought as the world grown chill.

What dreams or sorrows fill his mind? What truths in silence does he find? The palms, like sentries, gently bend as if they too, his thoughts defend. No voice, no stir, no urgent quest, just breath and dusk and needed rest.

Perhaps he’s weighed a thousand things: old wounds, lost love, forgotten springs. Or maybe simply, he just sees the sun bow low beyond the seas. And in that moment, held so tight, a soul becomes the falling light, where time dissolves and all is one: a man, a boat, a setting sun.

Golden Tales

Beneath the ancient baobab’s watchful limbs, where the sun spills gold on the cradle of the earth, an elder, crowned in wisdom’s white flame, spins the threads of time into living memory.

He speaks not just with words, but with hands shaped by harvests and storms, with eyes that have seen the arc of many moons, with silence between syllables deeper than wells.

Children gather like stars around a steady flame, their wide eyes drinking the dusk and his voice alike, for they know: this is no ordinary telling. This is the pulse of their people, a legacy they will carry on.

Behind them, the sun bows low, honoring this sacred exchange: the passing of stories older than war, kinder than conquest, wiser than time itself.

What is memory, if not a fire we tend in others? What is childhood, if not a vessel for the echo of ancestors?

And so, under the tree whose roots touch the bones of generations, the elder speaks and the future listens.