Stones and pebbles covered the floor
A few green grass growing in between
There’s a faint smell flowing
Smoky, muddy, sweet, but hard
“Walk!” a low voice shouts behind
Someone bumps a small girl on the right
My feet shake and lose balance
Hit my knee to one rough rock
More heavy steps marching forward
No one gave a second to help
My knee is oozing with red
The sting from the smooth cut across
I hate blood, and its rusty taste
But every now and then shades entices me
Light, pinkish, crimson red all over
In the midst of the full moon bloom
Only the gray and icy ground sees
The wind and the leaves listen
With the dark orange glare from the sun
Our stories are recorded on the pavement
Yakapin 