JANE DRAYCOTT |
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Village in Mourning (Kilio Kijijini)
The sharpening cold, the wind and then the storm. The sound of grief within the house. And he, like a gemstone lying asleep on the scales, waits to be cleansed by the rivers of tears that flow from their cheeks. Outside in the fields the maize lies flattened, the origins of the wind revealed, its path from death. The trees are still not finished dripping their raindrops that fall in furrows below, a lesson for those who with their hoes in their hand reckon out the years of a lifetime. In a moment, the droplets are done - life then appears all too brief. The soaking dew has tipped the trousers of the uncle who's come here to mourn. Who could believe this, if not for the speed of the rainwater flowing into the valley, reminding us all of the path each human life must take. Such silence! A village of silence. Silence outside, while inside the house are the cries of mourning and grief. Here we are, bowed down like corn not ready, not ripe yet, afraid of the reaper. Outside, it is slippery. If you walk here too fast you will fall. The cow and the goat stand in silence, watching each passer-by in sadness. A village of silence. Silence outside, while inside the house are the cries of the heads of corn bowing:Our Father at last is brought down - God is Great! Or so they are told.
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