linus kirwa

I’ve been watching him for a while now,

And I ask myself,

What does he think the world is made of?

He holds a knife between his fingers,

tries to sharpen a stick.

but it vanishes before he realizes it.

He throws it away

and leans against the wall.

‎

He strikes the wall with the knife,

carving some kind of note.

music only the wall could know.

soft yet rough,

like the hum of a giant

who forgot about music long ago.

‎

He bends, picks another stick,

tries again, more cavalier this time,

and the stick breaks.

And so he keeps breaking it.

‎

He stares at the trees,

as if to heed their warning,

a warning against him toying

with what was once part of them.

He glances at the little house,

Its roof brown and dark,

a chimney exhaling smoke through tiny openings,

into the air, so jubilant,

Yet weary and stressed.

Hands sinks into his pockets,

a grey hoodie with white sleeves,

a yellow trouser fading to brown,

dirt robbing its color,

and he its meaning.

I just keep watching him,

and wonder:

What does he think the world is made of?

By LinusLi

linuskipkemei2020@gmail.com