Friday, 14 May 2010

Woven like a Spiderweb.

She sits beneath an amber, midday sun with no canvas stretched overhead. The sun has been on her side for as long as her people can remember, ever since they were still wolves catching prey in their menacing fangs, running wild in packs of grey and white. She spends her days by the roadside, attempting to catch a few silver coins in her outstretched palms in exchange for one of the many fruits displayed on her makeshift stand, one of the many fruits picked from nature.
Nature. Always her best friend, her mother, her protector. It is in the sunlight where she is safe, it is in the coursing rivers where she is cleaned, it is in the lush greens of the forest where she is happy. Her copper face holds a beauty that is exquisite and raw: Thin lips, a straight nose, high cheekbones, almond eyes, and a jet of raven hair running like ink down her back.
Her stride is all-knowing although she has not been anywhere but here. She is wise beyond her years, beyond the limited realms of science and history.
She knows the anatomy of Earth, where every vein runs into the flowers and how every heartbeat pulses into the birds, setting them into flight. She understands the language of the winds and the stars and the waters that are older than history itself. She reads the footprints in the ground and the rings in treebarks.
She is all-knowing, and is bursting with stories to tell.
But she is trapped in a western world she does not want to belong to.
A prisoner, on the roadside, attempting to catch a few silver coins in her outstretched palms.

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