My sight
of her sticks out—like a sore thumb
The kamdelen-infested eyes, bare-feet
Parched
mouth—words of sorrow
Spoken,
frail frame of wasted body
Thought
I, weighed down by
The
sultry air this woman carried:
Where
was her elegance of kidong’a?
Which
wind would flutter her lorwaa?
From a
corner of a shop I watched her
Carrying
a malnourished baby
She
could have been 14
Yet she
could have been 40!
You my
Elders, unshackle her
Free
her! Untie her!
You my
Elders, bring back her innocence!
Bring
cheer to her face!
You the
owners of traditions
You are
busy hunting the egrets
Unaware
of the vultures hovering over your heads
One day,
Kacheliba Hill will rebel!
Lorot Son of the Hills’ Notes:
Kamdelen-
Pokot for dirt in the eyes.
Kidong’a-
A pokot traditional dance.
Lorwaa-
A Pokot traditional dress.
Posts
2 comments:
Oh, I so love your poems, Salem. This paints a sad picture, and I love your impassioned plea to unshackle her from her hard fate.
@ Sherry Blue Sky, she is not privileged with platform to speak out her woes...she suffocates in the stuffy cubybhole of society's patriarchal bent..I had to speak on her behalf.
Thanks for the comment, Koko.
Post a Comment
Echoes of the Hills is all about you. I would love to hear your echo...