Land of My Birth

Without speaking the ritual begins. All articles present, laid out in pristine order. The articles of life – health, wealth, greenery, rolling hills, drive-in volcanoes. One by one, they are plucked from their slot and customised for gain, leaving weathered remnants in their path. The inner core trembles and Mother Lucia’s calming hand glides down the mountains, her voice whispers…
‘Helen don’t give up.’
The warm waters swirl around swollen feet. Memories of battered kin, long battles waged by translucent warriors eager to hold your beauty, now being washed away. The air around is still, waters warm and nourishing, giving life back to a land long embroiled in a tug-o-war for possession. But are these really memories? Stinging nettle whips, unyielding machine belt collars, brandished by one elected fool after another on the pulpit, draining life from cane harvest gathered by bended backs.
‘Hush Helen, don’t give up!’
‘Your children will hear your cry.’
The warm waters flow into villages long forgotten by time, through passage ways left to crumble and fade away. Massaging them out of their slumber, giving strength to weary limbs. The hills sigh, shaking off the bonds of dependency and from deep within resolute voices cry…
‘Come Helen, time to rise!’
‘Gather your offspring, time to rise!’