Thoughts of sadness and envy A mist rises over the waters, as a chorus greets the dawn. Mountains crowned with storm clouds rule our world in silent majesty. Mountains clothed in forest, ancient before the birth of man. Clouds move, they fly across the heavens. Anxious in their duty, to end the thirst of this sacred land. Below us we see, movement in our village. Movement, ruled by the rhythms of seasons beyond count. The men in broad hats move towards the fields. Women perform chores as women do, within their homes. hurrying to join their men. Children, as we can never be, run about, they laugh, they cry, they play their games, in this paradise. To which, we come in envy. They know nothing of our world, yet we may visit theirs. They let us in with cries of joy, knowing we must leave. The sadness of that parting, of that we will not think. We watch the village stirring, we watch the men depart. Many are our uncles, so different from the one, who rules our lives in our home with gentle patient love. These people are our family yet we are strangers here. One day, as our brother did, we may disappear. We sit upon this little hill, we watch this tiny world. We write these words in praise of it Feeling the sadness of those who can not, may not remain ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ++++++++ Herro Hello owner SJD, who the heck are you? What's your name? Where are you? Are you hiding? We just might come and see. You gather Lao literature, so our Uncle says. Why? What for? It's thoughts upon the wind. It's written down, or spoken. A gift, from mind to mind or from a loving parent, to a gentle child. We have watched your site, little have we seen of the Lao literature just of SJD......4. Tell us owner Sjd, tell us please your name. Owner is so western, it's really not very Lao. The old men in our village tell us many tales, of Laos in the olden days, but never do they ask that we write the stories down, or put them on the web. They are happy with the tale, when the tales said. Myth is such a private thing, legend even more. we'll send you ours, you send us yours. We'll read them when they come. But owner SJD, a really awfull name. There are many things that we must do, so much demands our time. Count the possums, sing to birds, we talk to dragons too. The trees, our friends demand our time, of course there's Ranger Tim. Our sister and our brother, both so very small. need our smiles and hugs from time to time. We can not refuse them, never would we try. It's raining here in Lambton, our dogs sleep at our feet. The wind is blowing hard. We sit and watch our computer screen and wonder who you are.