Many women live a constant cycle of death and life, powerful as the tide, that comes unrelenting in strength and destruction. They barely have a choice to resist, to defy. It comes every morning, every moment, every few weeks, every time they see a child that reminds her of her stolen one. Everything lost, mocked, accused, denied. The next moment is a choice, whether it is worth it to accept the next breath. Or to just let go. It is crawling on her knees in thorny unforgiving gravel, sand in her nostrils, dust caked in her eyelids and lungs. Scavengers on the fringe threaten to take over her undecided body, temptingly close to death. Her spirit flees and returns. It flies to the stratosphere, almost and on the brink of eternity. As the fabric stretches and begins to tear, her spirit glimpses her kidnapped, malnourished, stolen, starving, forgotten children, and that Large Impending Purpose. When her spirit renewed turns back and enters her body once again, she scrapes herself forward and up, enough to make darkness shiver. But not enough to satisfy the woman’s lust of breakthrough. Her children groan, in a matching vomit of misery. Taunting hope. Incompetant salvation. Oxidizing breaths. Life-cycle-inducing sunglow. Again and again she dies and lives. And you never knew. She washed her face and reapplied the mascara perfectly. You thought she didn’t know any better, she lives in a hut made of sticks and mud after all. You thought she didn’t deserve to aspire. She talks loudly and with an attitude. Her hair is different. You had no idea there was such a large cultivation in the oppressed, persecuted woman, rows furrowed and tilled by her knees, soil mineralized by her tears, carefully weeded, prepared, hemmed in, expanded by this great overcoming energy, femme.
Protector and unifier of tribes.
The future of all of us.