The music of her laughter
Waded through the forests,
Like a white feather
Carried by the winds
Among the leaves
Over the great Indian waves
Of rippling waters;
Brushed through the ears
Of the little boy standing
At the edge of the silver stone

As he slowly closed his eyes
To feel the hushed echo
Of his mother's precious voice;
The blankets of the mocking breeze
Imprisoned the unspoken words
Like a warrior defeated
In a cruel game of dice

He held her last letter
In his tiny little fingers
Clutching closer to his bosom
He walked towards the seas;
Calm carefree unhurried
Like a forlorn bird,
Flying with his wings
Spread across the silver skies
Unaware of what lay beneath

With each step, the waves
Washed his weary feet;
But never did it hinder
This time’s little slave

He stopped
He stooped
And slowly let the letter go
To walk with the waves
To where it belonged
 To
The last laugh 
Ever for it to flow.