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





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