Are you wearing one?
born to trot Manual
Twenty and virginal when raped one midnight in a jail cell by an angry Klansman, Deputy Sheriff of Montgomery County, Alabama—only law for miles around Selma. Ne porti uno? Ventenne e vergine fui stuprata una mezzanotte in una cella di prigione da un rabido Klansman, il vice sceriffo della Contea Montgomery, Alabama—unica legge per miglia nei dintorni di Selma. My greatest moment of joy came in a near death—not when jailed by the Klans- man, but when giving birth to you who came by emergency Cesarean, bright with hope, lovely daughter; do you hear the ambulance of guilt, grieving in your near death birth, the re- birth of your mother, your moment of almost not being new life greeting me in your eyes, my eyes peering back at me, questioning, after the fever [subsided.
Are they yours, Daughter? I edit a book, On Prejudice: A Global Perspective, of xenophobia, ethnocentrism, sexism, racism, and hate the nuclear and oil barons who are your enemy. We cannot love without enemies who bond us together in love—Freud said— unless we see that avarice pours our own garbage and debris back upon us— Smothering us with mutual enemy.
Our oil, nuclear, chemical, and germ warfare proiteers hold us all hostage, you, me, and them, to the screams of skulls with their forever gold teeth, lampshades of skin, their ears are ours illed with a siren of guilt from the history book of corpses.
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It talks to autumn, Daughter. Its splendor makes us sing.
Un sottile ilo di vita goccia sulla pagina mentre i miei occhi diventano gli occhi di un altro: Sono i tuoi, Figlia? Metto insieme un libro, Sul Pregiudizio: Una Prospettiva [Globale, di xenofobia, etnocentrismo, sexismo, razzismo, e odio i baroni nucleari e del petrolio che sono i tuoi nemici. Il suo splendore ci fa cantare.
Only middle age girth makes me look maternal. Menopause has left not one kernel of hope in my old ovaries. Oggi, non vengo o spero di divenire incinta, nessun bimbetto scalpicciante in arrivo. La menopausa non ha lasciato un briciolo di speranza nelle mie vecchie ovaie. It, too, possesses a navel for seeing the world through the skin, has rounded buttocks, good to place against the hand the way earth reminds lesh of its being.
Through the eye of the needle, death is a country where people wonder and worry what it is like to live. The sullen wish to live and live soon, to be done with death and the happy want to stay dead forever wondering: will it hurt to live and is there death after death? Near Bari and Brindisi where the ferry has travelled the Adriatico, to and from Greece for centuries. How strange to view you, piccolo villaggio, with ladybugs, my talisman, landed on my shirt. Ladybugs rest on me at the dig of stone sculptures the Belgian professor shows me.
You never returned to your ancient land where now the [natives, simpatici pisani, wine and dine me in their best ristorante. She greets life from the wombs of mothers, full and rife, easing women in their labor, her skills nurtured by a deep and innate knowledge. Chanting rhymes, in the stillness of a moonless night, wrinkled hands signing and soothing, releasing souls from their dying flesh.
Threads of darkness and light, a shifting of veils as the chants arise and encompass the night. Hers was the care of flowers, stems and blossoms framing her braids, but at night when the dark wrapped around her a deep sorrow weighed in her heart, in her eyes the glitter of unwanted tears, for such blackness she feared. Eyes to the sky, she dreams winds on the heights. Will my dream of all dreams become true?
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To rejoin with the moon. And one day she saw them, in a glade with white flowers, little folks with long beards, merry and plain. Eyes to the sky, she dreams, winds on the heights. And so one night the little folks climbed on the mountain top, and jumping with delight they formed a line along the drop, then they began to spin, their little hands entwining threads from every moon ray.
Is my dream of all dreams coming true? To lay in the light of the moon. Gazing through the horizon and daydreaming in the moonlit sky, wrinkled face in the fleeting shadows, his gnarled hands draw in the ring of the moon, growing soon. He was born at the rim of an ancient wood, the elder son of a skilled woodsman. His was the task to care for the manor, his countenance soft, the loneliness ruling his life.
Every day when the sun was going down he loved to sit among the courtyard, his breathing slowed in savouring the cool air and then his eyes were lost in the dreaming Infinite visions bloomed in a whirl of colours, his bright eyes clouded with dreams, dreamworlds no one else could see. Then one day he become heir of all of the land and took on all the woodsman duties.
Bringing the tools to get some fresh timber he reached the wood but all in him shivered. Then all the trees swayed on and the wind blew stronger, and with the wind came the sound and a hush fell all around. The whispering came, a breath of wind, ancient minds wrapped around him, raw emotions touched his heart.
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Then his mind blew open sensing wisdom in words unspoken, reaching deep in eras of wondrous lives where they all were joined, joined as one. And suddenly he knew where his dreaming came from, and he acknowledge the woods as his world. And so he learned to live in the love of nature, and the trees shed their own skin for the man who was akin.
Across the veiled worlds, joining seasons and piercing through the endless time, in the Temple of Life. Daughters of the Earth dance in circles and the night attends, dark and fertile, heeds all she hides away. She can be maiden or old crone, bright into the darkness shines, sailing through the fluttering clouds, her shrine is the night.
Formless and timeless she flows between Goddess and God weaving enchanted words, to tie or free. Thirteen full moons round the year, and she dives into the sky, power that keeps flowing on.
Mysterious fire and water transpiring through the endless space, across infinite paths. She went until she found the tree, with her arms she reached out, small boughs brushed gently on her skin. Then her eyes closed, her voice so sweet and soothing with ancient rhymes of rebirth.
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And when her fingers touched the boughs they became flowers, her breath the warm breeze of the spring. From the tip of her toes appeared soft blades of grass and the air filled with songs of little birds. The fairy kneeled beside the tree, then she kissed the brown earth and a clear stream gushed from her mouth. And so she rose, in her eyes love and marvel, her clear voice cradling the grove. She tossed her hair about a branch, still whispering gently and soon her hair turned into leaves. And then a silver rain shone in the sunlight and a thousand sleeping grains sprang up to life.
Hear the drums echoing in the dark here it comes to my very heart, taste the airJoin in the ecstasy. Leave your hair to the wind, stretch your arms set your mind free. Fire and air swirling free Spreading charms all around me. In the air feel the softness of June. Prendi le mie mani e insieme percepiremo lo sbocciare senti il potere, la fragranza della vita. Lascia i tuoi capelli al vento, stendi le braccia libera la tua mente. Fuoco e aria mulinellano liberi spargendo incanti tutto intorno. Noi voliamo sopra i rovi e le nostre voci risuonano nel cielo, guarda i miei occhi incantati, senti la mia voce, unisciti al mio respiro.
Uniamo le nostre menti intrecciate, noi gioiremo illuminando il suo volto. Senti le nostre braccia che si allungano verso il viso della luna, denuda i miei piedi, accarezzami con antiche rime, senti il calore e chiudi gli occhi per essere un'unica cosa nelle nostre menti. Give me rain, it will wash my pain, and give me fire, to match my desire in the air bring your powers to be.
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