Little Viking statues

Every single time when a toy breaks, an invisible connection between a sweet child and a tender source of joy breaks, the tears that come out from this little creatures full of life surprise us. Even the toys cry every time that they are broken or put aside. They're souls made of plastic, of steel compress in loneliness.

From the bottom of an abandoned chest, intended to collect memories of a soft and light-hearted past, which gets increasingly heavy, our old companions moan, they wonder why we become so evil with time. The broken helix of an helicopter, the low batteries of a remote-controlled car, the mutilated limbs of an old warrior. They're signs of the pain that we inflict to them every time that we do something bad.

The acute scream of their sensations can't be perceived, they can't lead an old child to play again with them, they've no possibilities of giving innocent happiness anymore. But they do never hate ad will never do it. And in my condition of human I can't say if this helps or gets them to be even sadder. They always love, loving is all they can do, like a mirror they used to reflect the love which was poured on them, but which they have lost gradually, because the children became men and women and they burnt out inside of them.

While I write, I stare at three little Viking statues and a little chariot of steel in front of me. Four small figures, four warriors of happiness and hope. I was given them by my parents when I was a kid, I adored them infinitely, I fought lots of wars with them and I won everyone. Nevertheless, I forgot them suddenly, and for years I've been living without them.

Now I've just come across them, I put it in front of me and I look at them carefully, hoping to get my childhood back.

I go on staring at them intensely...

Their bearded faces dilate slowly in sweet smiles, they loosen the grip and let thier battle-axes fall down, they look at each other and start hugging and crying for joy, and I cry with them, their small figures taken by the hands get on the chariot. The rider whips the two horses which start flying leaving a trail of shining stars and silver magic. I can listen to their laughs. I open the window sorrowful because I'm losing what remained of my childhood. The chariot goes out in the frosty air of winter and my dear little Viking statues greet me sweetly with their little big hands, closing and opening the palm of their hands, just like we used to do when I was a child. My childhood's chariot has become a little point in this black night while my friends head towards Walhalla on the way of my tears.

This song inspired me while writing whis. 

From: Uranus