This dirt. This land. This breeze. This time. This country. This peace. This solid ground.
Zambia speaks in movements of the sky. Stagnant clouds meet gently rolling waves of wind. Waves that turn violent, wind gushing, spiraling, blowing dust into eyelids, into crevices between cooking jars, under lament floor mats. Just like an undertow, pulling bikes off course, chickens astray. And the heat. Days when nothing but sweat moves down your body. When the trees frown and the ground cracks and splits open like a bloody lip after a fist fight. This hotness stifles and creates an atmosphere that just must be akin to Mars. The Sun screams, this land is strong. This country is faithful. One day rain will come. One day soon. That day I’ll write about how the water meets this land, this dirt, this ground where I’ll stand barefooted, listening to Zambia sing in loud praises. Because one day the rain will come.
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Author's note:Hi, I'm Helen. Welcome to Lifted ~ I write to lift myself up. Archives
March 2021
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