Sitting here on the prow of this ship, glorious sea birds winging their aria above me,
I remember with salt-stained tears the forests of my youth.
There once was something called a young earth.
A pleasant, mediocre, Middle Earth that would give you rite of passage to just sit and watch the grass grow.
If I recall with my feeble mind, it once had the smell of creation, of infantile creatures, of pure white.
Many hours were spent in that seemingly distant land and now seem thrown to the sea spray for care of a better life across the Sea.
It is for the best I believe.
The sea foam kicks up under the keel, and I steady my hand on the smooth malorn wood of the deck.
Many memories are fading as the setting sun.
Many more will be made.
Change is good.