She writes verses of poetry in her mind as she looks at the pale moon and the North Star from a two story house – a house built on the side of the street of a village that has endured bombshells and rifles and men with rough shoes and a handful of foreign languages.
She writes verses of poetry in her mind about what’s going on in the minds of the people sitting in the gardens and lit houses around her: What hardships have they endured in their lives? How many times have they fallen in love? What goes on in their minds as they lay their heads every night on their pillow? What has made them who they currently are?
She is fascinated by people’s history.
She writes verses of poetry in her mind as the prayers of a distant priest fill the village for the fifth time that day, and raise to the sky in an attempt to please a listener in the heavens that may or may not be listening – that may be a figment of imagination that has been passed on from a history to another, and has been woven so deeply into the histories of so many that it has become an “unquestionable” reality.
She writes verses of poetry in her mind about this reality, as she realizes the role she can and has to play in carving out an exact piece of the future she wants to hold in her wrinkled hands 50 – 60 years from now.
She trudges down the steps to the first floor and lights red candles she usually leaves for special events then decorates the halls with them. She sits facing a 32 inch TV.
She turns it on: Skies black from fire smoke. Villages rioting. People out of their minds. Minds out of their people. Burnt gardens. A repeated history.Chaos. A young girl with curly brown hair and sun-kissed skin lying dead in a pool of crimson red blood. A young boy placing next to her a white flower black from the grease in his hands, and a lit red candle.
She turns it off – smashes the screen with the vase of white flowers she had placed at the table, next to the red candle she just lit.
And then, she goes back to writing verses of poetry in her mind, running far away from a bitter- sweet reality and a constantly repeating history. But at the back of her mind, behind where the verses of poetry form, the image of curls and tan and the history that that girl could have made continuously resurface.
At some point, she knows she will write verses about her too.