Majolica The journey to find you was lifeless as the sun casting its shadow over empty apartment blocks drooping sunflowers and money plants broker than the landscape our train was ploughing, neither of us understanding words being sowed across pavements as we asked for directions to your father; eventually following them scattering in the wind. It was luck, not God, who brought us to you. And then, when wrapped up in tissue paper the world heard you mourn, every sunflower etched on your tin face melting, slowly falling.