It was never as nice as we imagined it,
Never the paradise we were hoping for;
We didn’t notice
how the river barely flowed
and how polluted it was.
We still called it a river,
Too small ourselves
to see it was really a creek.
We didn’t notice the train’s roar above us,
Or the angry “no loitering” signs;
In those sunlit hours we found peace.
In the calacala-us wading through water,
Hopping on rocks and climbing on trees,
The rhythm of breathing and living.
Our childhood
was spent in long afternoons
Making flower crowns,
Finding beauty, suburban paradise
In the movement of sunlight
on water, on trees,
through branches and leaves
Of our innocence.