Waking up each morning,
to noise of children as they play in the neighbourhood,
the rays of the rising sun shamelessly peeping through the cracks on the wooden house,
gets off her small bed in search of something to put in her stomach.
in the kitchen there sat a set of stones,
clueless, supporting a sufuria coated with soot,
smoke filled the small room,
from the wet firewood collected last night
the cracks clearly indicating the situation there.
In the farm, women are busy tilling ,
men in the sheds cleaning, feeding and milking
children flirting with the sun, playing all sorts of games …
a village. Nuclear village.
where life is like shadows that don’t know where to go,
waiting for tomorrow.
At sunset we share a basin of water to wash our feet,
gathered at the fireplace,
with our stomach growling in hunger,
we fight for the little crumbs available,
something just to make us fall asleep,
and sometimes things get rough,
but it’s my pride. It’s where I am from.