The opposite bank
She looked from a distance.
It never drew her in.
A gulf separated the two banks.
A body of water that she didn’t want to cross.
The current will pull me down. She felt.
Gazing across she liked what she saw.
But she never wanted to join in the mindlessness.
It’s all good on my end. She said.
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“The Kara women collect the water, cook for family, harvest the fields, make the clothing, and are the backbone of the tribe. This elderly woman was the only white-haired person I came in contact with. I tried desperately to get a pleasing portrait and caught her hands in my peripheries; the perfect symbol of the woman’s role in tribal society in the Omo River Valley. Her bracelets are made from salvaged AK-47 shell casings, a symbol in itself for the cyclic theme of war and revenge between the Kara and the neighboring tribe, the Nyangatom. Omo River Valley, Ethiopia.
Hands have the ability to tell a story so beautifully.
Please take a look at these other photos from the National Geographic 2011 Contest
(via danielatumbls)
A little girl once
swore
she would never step into the world, always looking
never within
With each year passing, her heart grew
bigger and bolder
the little promise got lost
everything else consumed her
heart.
That grace continued to abound
unconditionally
gave a glimmer of light resounding
bright
in the darkness of the world.
Her path one frequently trod
filled with the company
lost travellers
each finding their compass
direction to bring them
Home
Be bold and wear sparkles.
If I chant this mantra, maybe, just maybe one day I might find the courage and the occasion to don it.
In the quiet of the night, the beats secretly dance in my heart. Like a sly monster, it creeps up upon me. I hear the music getting louder, my movements getting bolder. Words turn into song and notes become music. Melodious it may be not but the silence is my audience.
