The temple officials gossip.
They talk about Himari's curls.
Golden treasures.
Blessed by the sun god himself.
They bounce and reflect. Mellow to the touch.
Silk like.
If fingers were to thread into Himari's curls, they would sink. Feeling like a cloud floating in the blue sea above.
Himari does not feel this way.
Golden curls.
They are no such treasure to Himari.
A curse.
On the night he was born, there had been a terrible storm.
The waters raged. Flooding the village.
Houses were torn. Mudslides were created.
The wind howled. Then a baby cried.
Despite the scowling moon, attempting to oversee the clouds, the silver strays of light never caught a glance of the newborn.
The earth was in turmoil.
Yet the newborn was healthy, alive.
Golden curls glowed in the darkness.
A candle to the broken village.
Now being casted aside to appease their ugly tradition.