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,
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