The ordinaries of the outskirts
Grind grain by hand,
Wash clothes on rocks by the river,
Pummeling thick frayed fabric,
They weave with fingers.
They dance to happy love songs,
Drunk on the sweetest spring water.
Rhythms that are alluring,
Emanate from their clapping palms,
And ethnic percussions.
They still believe in mountain gods:
The dwellers of snow-capped peaks
Who earned their respect
Claiming limbs and yielding grass
For several suns to rise and set
The smiles on their weather beaten faces,
Reach their eyes,
Making them beautiful.
Their souls know
What no one from the planes ever could.
Centuries have passed through them,
Their wisdom is eclectic,
Intoxicating and freely given,
To intermittent travelers who
Mistakenly believe their journeys to be conquests.
As I watch them in their landscape
Spending days with their herds
Of goats and kine,
Going home every day to somewhere new
Beneath the same stars,
I realize, that I am the ordinary
From the common outskirts
Of their extraordinary lives,
Spent armed, with the secret
To the meaning of life