No one search for me, for though I am lost I have no desire to be found again.
I long for the blaring sounds of cicadas over the overbearing silence in the dryness of the valley,
The rolling meadow with cascading blankets of green grass and yellow dandelions a map freckled in gold.
Wrapped in this dry and sweet-smelling blanket, my dreams of ebbing pain will never grow old,
They’ll only echo through satin blue dawn as loudly as the other sounds that never reach the air.
No one looks for me, no one knows I’m gone. Am I hiding, or have I been forgotten?
I don’t know; I don’t care.
There is nowhere else I’d rather go than this place so deep in my memories.
I can still hear the trickling of a stream over worn pebbles, I can still smell smoke so distantly.
As I tuck myself away in my warm reverie, I wait so patiently for the gold to turn to ivory.
The dandelions are so binary – white or yellow, I never witness them as both, though I delight at the tiny clouds.
Only in the brightest of the sun rays as the most ambitious seeds hop up and float away,
I hold my breath for the right one to wish upon beneath the blaring sun.
In burning heat and beading sweat, still so patient, I hold my breath.
This dream won’t last forever, but this memory will never fade as I remember my feet wade through the valley,
Time and time again, I’ll never forget about this place that I’m not sure I’ve ever been.
The way it holds me softly when the tears won’t leave my eyes, the way it holds me softly when I idly fantasize
Of somewhere that no one will ever find me, were they to even remember my face
And since no one looks for me, I can pretend that I don’t exist as I hold my flower and close my eyes to make my wish.
The sun hot on my face and glowing through my shut eyelids, I’ll make my wish.
And thus I release my breath, but it’s been so long since I inhaled… it’s been so long that I’ve been gone so far away –
I’ve forgotten what I hoped to wish!
So I watch the seeds drift off in a scattered cloud, into the pale forever blue in a quickly dispersing shroud
Next dream, they’ll bloom again and I can return once more to the valley in which I will never be found.
