I must have been about five, then.
On this wide earth
we had only a little land.
I remember a stream full of brown fish
flowing far away.
From the mountains nearby
no sign of rainfall.
Nature had become a monster
and betrayed us.
My father, who had once worshipped
the cool rays of the sun
didn’t glance eastward anymore.
He ploughed the land with his own hands;
my sister and I gathered small stones
and threw them out of his way.
My long-haired mother followed
watering the earth with her tears.
One day, when the soil loosened
we sowed millet seeds.
And then the time came for the harvest,
ushered in by bird-whistle.
We picked the untapped honeycombs
as tenderly as if they were lilies.
Castrated seeds call out, screaming
from their watery womb.