Nemu Lima,

'Where do you want to go?'
Nemu Lima
Asked me,
Her tiny eyes had curiosity,
Perhaps she had not seen someone
Like me, so wayward, vagrant,
Perhaps she got the smell
Of trees, those which
Spell dreams, a bit vagabondish,
On clothes and eyelids,
Of people who had traveled
Through woods, clouded and thick,

'Don't know...
You tell me...'
I smiled and answered,
Looking at those pebbles, stones, rocks,
That had slid down the slope of the hills,
And the misty shape that
One's soul with liberation from business filled,

Perhaps Nemu Lima saw something,
Some kind of adventurous spirit,
In me, a bit vagabondish,
'How long are you pent up there?
How long have you not taken the mystic air?
How long have you not sung your heart?
How long have you been living from your self set apart?'
Nemu Lima asked,
Her tiny eyes
Curious,

'Many years...
I do not care to count...'
Answered I,
By silence of the woods bound,

'Take this...'
Nemu Lima
Handed me a scroll,
Rolled into a cylindrical container, made of steel,
Shiny, cold,

I took that into my hands,
A thin red ribbon it had,
At one end,

'Tie it around your neck...
And tread...
Across that zone
Which had witnessed an earthquake
And landslide...
Tread silent,
And pray...
Till you reach
Where you want to go...'
Nemu Lima,
Said, her face with a smile set aglow,

'I will...'

I said,
And bowed,

The hills looked like friends
Calling me.