Qur true ancestry never forgotten.
Our warriors… ingrained, engraved in our memory… our hearts.. not carved out of stone.
We hold in our spirits, trace memories, etched in words we cannot understand. Along a parallel river, we walk, and we do feel it in our blood streams…
We cannot shake it off like we would the dust of a thousand millenia. We watch the dust dance off of rooftops, worn walk ways, clothing, as we plonk ourselves down on the bus, after a long hot day. Watching the dust shine through the sun drops, we close our eyes, lift our heads, and imagine warriors on tall horses… ever so haughty and proud…. standing in sillouhette, against a backdrop of dry grassy mountain and low hot plains, crowded with rivers, of cactus, scented sagebrush. Narry a cowboy in sight.
All of a sudden, interrupting our speech, the stench of a kindly bum plops sloppily side our leg . We move over to the cool wall of the bus… squinting eyes and nose, trying to bring back sweet memory of days gone by… where we too, once were warriors….
We stand up to saunter off… our billowing steed .. high top sneakers or two year old flip flops… We gallop past pedestric pedestrians… head turn sideways like crows… wondering at the warrior spirit they see in our eyes… and wish for the spirituality we hold dear to our sweaty shirts, and damp kerchiefs clinging to our foreheads… and in our full bags of groceries…
We ride off into the sunset, as the bus pushes dust along the gray concrete… also it’s stories to tell