When I was seven years old,

my father sent me off

to another lord 

and his gray and dark 

castle with some thin cracks

which carved into the wall of it.

My mother's tears and cries

and the firm shadow of my father’s back

always stayed in my dream

almost seven years.

I didn't want to remember anymore.

When I trained to fight with others,

the host always stood near

the windows of third floor

and caressed golden gems in his hands.

I gazed at his shadow, slowly 

extinguished by the sun. 

My favorite close-fitting short tunic 

made of blue and red velvets. 

An embroidered lion on my chest.

I imagined vast lands and countless money

appearing on my 14th birthday 

and the next seven years.

"Matthew Jefferson V..."

I moved and bowed to the king.

He dubbed my shoulder

with the flat of his sword.

I saw my father, the corners of his mouth going upward

did not need any words.