Fields of Gold
Disclaimer: Naruto is Kishimoto's property. I'm not making any money from this.
Warning: Violence.
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How much could he gather in the tiny fist of his hand? The slow slither of Time—timeless grains of sand. A field of gold lay beyond him, scintillating little stars in the dunes. It was vast, this expanse of desert. A heart whittled by the keen edge of Time, it trembled and sung such tunes of melodious longing for what lay beyond the gold, the sartorial brilliance of his garb—red against the gold.
Sun was distant and forlorn, a ball of gold in the sky. Summer was gone. Winter made the nights so cold. Wind blew from the north, and then the gold would whirl and whirl over the sands, gathering little grains as it went—a quiet ghost of the night, a shrilling spectre in the morning that spilt red in the sand sepultures of his making. His cheeks grew red and warm, and he closed his eyes, lashes fluttering upon the plump cheeks.
He liked the winter. The Sun was kind to him these days; he trod slowly over the dunes, and gold did not sting on the soft underside of his feet. He canted his head slightly, his eyes bright in the light. And he kept walking, taking one small step over the sand to go beyond the dune that kissed the bow of the sky—to find her welcoming bosom. It was not far—he could still make it . . . it was not far . . .
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The End