Whether a bird flying south in the skies

Whether a bird in the skies flying south. Or a candle over a cold grave. Or a baby at his mother's breast In a snowstorm at dawn, till the shop opens up. Till it opens — so many thoughts. How to haul a couple of bags back home. How to keep the little boy from waking, So the weather's horror won't frighten his eyes. So the loud wind won't turn the sweet taste of dreams Into terrible creatures That will rush into the little one's world To scare him a bit every day. Mommy walks softly like a water strider. Walks between puddles slippery as mirrors. So glad the little one is asleep. Let him dream he's flying like a bird. Flying south above his village. Here's the school, here's the cinema, and that shop. Candles flicker over a flat little grave. And here you are, walking with me, my mama.