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My Father’s Children

My Father’s Children 

My father’s children were fools, the spectacle of my village people. 

We danced naked under the first rains,

savoring the sweet smell of the cloud’s tears 

on the dry parched skin of the village floor. 

Our little feet stomped on the muddy ground 

with reckless abandon. 

We laughed as the soft water rained 

down our little throats,

as we swallowed the cloud’s salt-free tears.

My father’s children were fools, 

the talk of the village people. 

The village market day would see us marching 

with skimpy hand-me-down clothes to the market,

throwing stones because Mama wasn’t there.

She was resting,

Six-feet silent.

Published inPoetry&Musings

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