A Grief Paradox in a Sterile Society; By: Jevaline I want to cut my hair and body And howl like a Native American I want to rip off my clothes And rub dirt all over myself I want to hit my knees and scream - My primal, soul-filled-who-killed- part-of-me scream. Let the wind carry it far. Let my ancestors scream with me. I want to run mud under my eyes And stripe my face with it. Play your drums while I slowly dance around the fire Watch me. Give me a big stick - a stick with history And let my capable hands clutch it and shake it and dance to the spirit of the rhythm in your drum. Let me be. Let me dance alone with the fire. I will run my hands through the flames; let me tango with the fire Watch my blood paint my arms and legs red, as I chant and move with my dance stick. Dont you dare be put off - I am grieving. Oh, Elder, take your paint and stripe my back and chest with red and white. Let me keep dancing My sweat mixes with my blood and paint and my body creates its own canvass My eyes are closed as I chant left, back step, chant right, forward step, then turn, clutching my dancing stick in front of me, low, then high above me. I hit my knees once more, silhouetted by the fire and moon. I offer my hands up to God, my hands form a cup. My God, my Faithful Lord, please take my burden. Come, Elder. Cleanse me as only you can. Take your rags and dip them in water. Cleanse my body of my war. Go on, now. And let me repeat this every night *Photo is not mine.
Posted on: Sat, 04 Oct 2014 21:26:00 +0000
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