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SassyJ Mar 2016
The forested breeze blew eastwards. On each swing of the wind, the birds flew and fluttered. Each of their wings swaying to find a harmonious balance. The sweet melody of ethnic hymns from the native village rose above the trees. The sequenced output with equalised acapella became an anthem that ruled the forests.The gravelled path structured it's way between the trees right to the heart of the village.

The village elder sat outside the middle hut. His hut stood out from those encircling it. Humbled in stature but yet symbolically decorated with colourful redness of the roses. The beautiful scented ambience rose to fuel the air within and around. The door of the hut was formatted with sculptured inscriptions that had a covert meaning. A story line about the long historic lineage of leaders. The entrance of the doorway was guarded by two warriors. Each of them had a shield and spear, alert and portraying courage. Their bodies were bare ready to attack the enemy, their groins fully formed and covered with *****. The sight of the hut itself was magnificent...... it's aura radiant with an embodiment of hereditary and hierarchical authority.

As the village chief watched the birds sway and whistle, he sat on his antique stool. In the openness of the nature he appeared puzzled. As he shrugged his symbolic leopard hide on his back.... it swung side to side. Still in situ, but there was something about it's presence that nagged him. He touched it and then speedily moved his hand from it. He then raised his voice. "Amita!"

His voice echoed and roared penetrating all the homesteads. By the time the volume of the echo subsided he called out again "Amita, Amita, Amita!"

Amita came running and knelt at the feet of the Chief. She replied "Yes Chief Hashi. I am here for your service Sir!"

Amita was a 21 year old girl. She was wearing a straw skirt. Her arm was tattooed with a prominent artistic representation of a snake swinging from the tree. The shades of the red snake pictured on the hues of the green tree. This symbolised that she was a servant and lived at the Chief's Quarters. Amita had sacrificed her life as her lineage did to serve the Chief and his household. A dedication of servanthood to the Chief and him alone.

Amita bowed as she knelt, her bare ***** ***** and shadowing the Chief's feet. The chief looked at Amita as if hyptonised by the touch of her *******. He glared at her beauty, the outstanding womanhood she poised. After a long pose of silence the Chief responded, " Amita, can you fix my hide ensuring that it's attachments are secure"

There was a level of vulnerability that the chief showed Amita. He appeared to be humble, a denudation of authority, that very call of submission. There was evidently a reciprocal of roles as Amita raised her eyes from the ground to face the Chief. As their eyes met the Chief hastily paused and froze as if speechless. As he gathered his senses he was firmly able to look at Amita and said, " Can you join me inside my hut please?"

Amita remained kneeling as the Chief stood up from his stool. Chief Hashi steadily walked to the doorway of his hut. Pace after pace, stroll after stroll. As he walked by the doorway the warriors raised their spears to his presence. He was proudly ushered to his exquisite residence. He then  faced the warriors and asked them to leave guard. Chief Hashi requested, "Can you come back after two hours." As the guards walked away the Chief in his freedom danced around, hysterically moving his hands multi-directionally.

Chief Hashi opened the window to his hut. This was adjacent to where Amita was kneeling. In his vulnerability he whispered, "My child Amita, get up and join me inside my hut. The door is open and ajar.... always for you my queen."

Amita stood up from the kneeling position and run her way into Chief Hashi hut.
Inspired by
Mafikizolo ft Uhuru (Khona)..... Come and see that place....I don't know the full meaning of the song but love the vibe of it.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yhk52GlkhVA
Laura Guzman Mar 2012
Covers
deliquesce
-rendered to liquid by
Suns setting rays
Wicked fevered winds
desiccate
smoldered and molten
Remains
Enticed by timid
denudation
sinless famished hands
Claw and wrench
in brine
and moonlight
they bathe
they flicker
beneath
the *Indian summer night.
Danny Oct 2019
We could kindle the twigs and the fallen leaves
Dry as a dead dingo's donger
And make a fire which burns for a while
But betimes would flicker and out it goes sooner or later

We could even build a house skillfully like the cassican
Sight to a sore eyes on completion
A beautiful paradise and definitely talk of the town
But talks are like baby fat they always disappear

We could write in the sand as we stand on the shore
The tale of our union but the tides will come
Or even inscribe on a rock the symbol of our love
There for years until denudation knocks

So I think it's better if we dig the ground
Not to keep the dead but to grow a life
As we sow a seed which grows for life
Come the seasons under the sun

A saviour on a sunny day
With nectariferous flowers bearing fruit with seeds
A zoar for birds and other figures of life
Green that adds to the already colourful work of art

Come let's plant a tree today on the spot
Where our hearts melted like iron in a furnace
As the smith forges what he pleases
Where we met after days spent following the treasure trail

Where we first kissed and nothing else mattered
But the wrestle of two lit tongues
Right where love found us and we found love
The clouds bearing witness

Though a howling gale may rise
Bring it down like the leaves in autumn
But there's always a contingency plan
Seeds that will sprout in spring
Satsih Verma Oct 2016
Yes it is descriptive only,
the unbearable pain of denudation,
like blue heartache.

Touching the extremes, you
become desperate to―
reach the first letter.

The word will form later.
The virtue of knowing―
the unknown was a punishment,
you cannot untie the knots.

You must know the trick of―
the trade. How to come back
alive after touching the skin
of a viper?

No celebration to mark―
the anniversary of the assassin.
Life itself takes the award.
Prevost Jul 2020
they stand bold
against the bold
neither the subject of either
this ballet reaches within
each wave a grating caress
moving the unmovable
the increments
in a quantity that thwarts perception

had those waves
ever touched them before
are they lovers
each longing to return
touching what they once were
are we not all
old lovers  

as they rise against
and above
some quantity of breath
is drawn
what pulls from within
the eye tethered to the soul
the majesty
watching time unfold
amal Oct 2020
I carry others my tragedy
Peg to escape from the truth ..
God and human beings ..
And when I realize that God is a word
Human beings are a word too ..
I clean my mind ... and I penetrate inside my self  ...
To re-stuff myself
by the guidance of the truth
that I am A word too ..

— The End —