Jul 2015
Soft yellow petals paint the earth, falling like tiny feathers back and forth in a cradling fashion and settling quietly into the dirt. A small figure howls his lamentations. He leans over the earth pounding his fists against the open ground. A vacant face with almost ape like features seems to be silently sleeping. Grunts of sorrow fill the mournful morning sky.
The small man-beast cries. Behind him tiny fingers clutch his light brown matted hair, muffled sobs slipping from their tiny mouths. He turns, cradling the younglings in his arms; then tightens his embrace, smothering their pain with his till there is a small sense of comfort left.
A flaming arrow soars above a shimmering pool of water, whistling at its own reflection as it seeks its target. He floats gently in the pond a stark contrast from his own life. Once warrior now rotting corpse. Sword ceremoniously placed upon his chest; arms crossed. The flaming arrow falls. The body is consumed. In the distance a tribe stands stoically holding in tears of sorrow mixed with a tense sense of pride.
Somewhere in the stone city a poets sings his sad rhymes, echoing the love of a stranger, the wrinkled form now fallen. The people pass in a small procession. He lets their soft sobs fill him up. A young man hands him a coin in gratitude for the melody and the honorable words then walks away his shoulders heavy with grief. His body sags as if the gravity has been multiplied by ten. A little girl sniffs the dry dusty air taking in the oils and perfumes, waiting to see if Hades shows up. The poets passes the newly earned coin to a starving stranger sitting quietly nearby.
Deep south a disfigured body dances in the breeze, swaying in time with the leaves of the tree. A mother wails; she is restrained. Her body, hardened by years of labor, crumbles for a moment. Her brown skin moistened by tears glimmers in the days harsh rays. Shaking with anguish, she struggles against the strength of those she loves. A male voice warns her against the dangers of trying to recover the body. Even so, it takes two grown men to hold her back.
A robed figure stifles his sorrow beneath the strong veil of faith. The restraint takes much of his mental strength leaving him emotionally fatigued. There is a small body laying limply in his arms. Blood paints his loose flowing robes red. His beard is sticky with sweat, sand, and snot. The face of the child is ruptured. That which once enraptured and inspired fatherly love now terrifies. The reality is a massive wound paralleled by the sickening hole in his child’s face. Brittle bone broken and bent sinking inwards as what should be there disappears. All that is left is a mess of flesh and pain. Barely a foot away one brother softly whispers his prayers to Allah on behalf of his nephew.
I close the eyes of my grandfather, or at least I imagine that I close his eyes. I do not have the strength to touch him. I do not know why. I want to pay him some grand respect out of love and gratitude. The guns sound a salute as strangers honor him more than I am able to. A folded flag finds its way into my arms. I am merely holding it for another. I look at my shirt, a weird black button up thing with short sleeves and flames, wishing I had worn something better. I wish I had a poem, or petals, or even a flaming arrow but all I have is this stupidly stunned face numbly staring out at the world.
Suddenly, I feel the softness of tiny furry fingers interlace with mine. Then the music of a foreign language plays in my ears. To the left, a strong brown calloused hand squeezes my shoulder in a statement of compassion. Behind me I feel the pat a powerful palms slapping against my back in pride. In front of me a thin skinned black bearded figure sits on his knees. He lowers his head, hands gently pressing against the ground. He prays, and I hear a beautiful accent in a tongue I cannot comprehend, but I understand the intent. Then the bearded stranger raises his head again, repeating the process a few more time. I nod my head in solemn gratitude.
The small man-beast cries. Behind him tiny fingers clutch his light brown matted hair, muffled sobs slipping from their tiny mouths. He turns, cradling the younglings in his arms; then tightens his embrace, smothering their pain with his till there is a small sense of comfort left.
A flaming arrow soars above a shimmering pool of water, whistling at its own reflection as it seeks its target. He floats gently in the pond a stark contrast from his own life. Once warrior now rotting corpse. Sword ceremoniously placed upon his chest; arms crossed. The flaming arrow falls. The body is consumed. In the distance a tribe stands stoically holding in tears of sorrow mixed with a tense sense of pride.
Somewhere in the stone city a poets sings his sad rhymes, echoing the love of a stranger, the wrinkled form now fallen. The people pass in a small procession. He lets their soft sobs fill him up. A young man hands him a coin in gratitude for the melody and the honorable words then walks away his shoulders heavy with grief. His body sags as if the gravity has been multiplied by ten. A little girl sniffs the dry dusty air taking in the oils and perfumes, waiting to see if Hades shows up. The poets passes the newly earned coin to a starving stranger sitting quietly nearby.
Deep south a disfigured body dances in the breeze, swaying in time with the leaves of the tree. A mother wails; she is restrained. Her body, hardened by years of labor, crumbles for a moment. Her brown skin moistened by tears glimmers in the days harsh rays. Shaking with anguish, she struggles against the strength of those she loves. A male voice warns her against the dangers of trying to recover the body. Even so, it takes two grown men to hold her back.
A robed figure stifles his sorrow beneath the strong veil of faith. The restraint takes much of his mental strength leaving him emotionally fatigued. There is a small body laying limply in his arms. Blood paints his loose flowing robes red. His beard is sticky with sweat, sand, and snot. The face of the child is ruptured. That which once enraptured and inspired fatherly love now terrifies. The reality is a massive wound paralleled by the sickening hole in his child’s face. Brittle bone broken and bent sinking inwards as what should be there disappears. All that is left is a mess of flesh and pain. Barely a foot away one brother softly whispers his prayers to Allah on behalf of his nephew.
I close the eyes of my grandfather, or at least I imagine that I close his eyes. I do not have the strength to touch him. I do not know why. I want to pay him some grand respect out of love and gratitude. The guns sound a salute as strangers honor him more than I am able to. A folded flag finds its way into my arms. I am merely holding it for another. I look at my shirt, a weird black button up thing with short sleeves and flames, wishing I had worn something better. I wish I had a poem, or petals, or even a flaming arrow but all I have is this stupidly stunned face numbly staring out at the world.
Suddenly, I feel the softness of tiny furry fingers interlace with mine. Then the music of a foreign language plays in my ears. To the left, a strong brown calloused hand squeezes my shoulder in a statement of compassion. Behind me I feel the pat a powerful palms slapping against my back in pride. In front of me a thin skinned black bearded figure sits on his knees. He lowers his head, hands gently pressing against the ground. He prays, and I hear a beautiful accent in a tongue I cannot comprehend, but I understand the intent. Then the bearded stranger raises his head again, repeating the process a few more time. I nod my head in solemn gratitude.
