As a child, he rhymed for his mother. He made her smile and laugh with his thoughtful words. His brothers hunted with their father. In their little house in the south, he helped cook and clean, all the while humming his little songs and making rhyming games for his sister.
As a young man, he caressed his sweetheart with beautiful words and loving touches, making poems just for her eyes. Because he loved her and she loved his words. The other boys flirted and played and eyed the girls, never committing and never caring. They had their minds set elsewhere-Japan.
His mother cried, that day the draft came. Because her sweet son had to go. Not her oldest, a strong and determined man. Not her second, eager and smart. But her boy, who loved words and sounds, who's kind hands and sweet lips painted visions more beautiful than the world. He had to go. She cried too, the girl who had his heart.
So he went overseas. He watched blood spill and lives slip away. He felt the tears make rivers down his face as it reflected the pain on his comrade's when they watched a friend or enemy die. They did not want to be there, killing innocent people.
He came home eventually, but it was not him. The kind touch and gentle words were gone; haunted looks and cold silence had taken their place. His innocence had been stolen. Yet she still loved him, that girl who held his heart. She stayed with him until taken by Death. Once again he watched his family fade away. Once again he watched innocent blood flow as payment for man's mistakes. Once again he was alone. He was alone.
But the words came back. The words he had lost, the things he had left unsaid. And he wrote. He wrote about loss. Wrote of sorrow and love and pain. Most of all, he spoke about the things he remembered. A mother's smile, a lover's touch, a father's tears, a dying breath. He spoke for the memory of those who had gone. Out of love and fear,he wrote to remember them. And once, when he was done writing, he decided to share.
So he went to the park, that summer day, and sat down on the bench. He started talking. He talked in rhymes, in beautiful words and painted visions. He talked of all those who were gone, he talked for all those yet to come.
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