For the Acquaintance of my Mind

 

Were they without names? Were they without names?

We don’t know who they are. We have been watching them.

Will they make it? I wish they could fly. I wish I knew their names.

We have heard of them, we have been watching them for too long.

We don’t know their names yet we have watched them for too long.

We have known of them and about them.

 

I keep asking myself of what their names would be. I keep watching them as 

You watch them. Watched as they walked pass, a cloudy dust is created from the 

Troubled relationship of their feet and the earth their ancestors walked on hundreds

Of years before them, producing a stormy and thunderous silence that penetrates the fibbers of my mind. Will we miss them? Will you miss them? Will I miss them?

Will we remember them, will you remember them, I will remember.

 

I scream out to ask for their names and reach out my hand.

They shout back to me. A sound of many names, a sound that sounded like a song of despair. The names that where no more names.

The names spoken out without desire to want to exist, the names that have become meaningless.

The names that became no names. 

They became the unnamed, those without names. 

 

They walk past. Their feet knew no relationship with the earth, they dragged on. The land they knew refuses to embrace them and the people it knew refuses to embrace it. They are like an uprooted tree from the soils. A tree that had lost all its sisterly leaves and flowers that once blossomed, the brotherly branches and suckets that once mushroomed from its trunk, the cousinly twigs, shrubs, the enemy weeds that grew around it and it strong lover, the soil.

 

They keep on walking; their shoulders bent down and troubled by the wait of their head borne. Their skeleton frame seems not to understand its relationship with the frail muscles it’s caring. 

Their faces are like that of a man that has lost his soul to a strong witch that only exists in the darkest underworld depth of death.

Captured and hidden under a huge rock that could only be moved by a white Knight.

 

 

The only relationship they know is that of their skeletoned hands and the bundles they are holding. They cling on like a corpse that had died holding a treasure from the undiscovered worlds. 

 

They walk on with only what they hold. Their memories have turned into layers of fogy nights. 

They eyes and the mind refuses to look through the fogy nights.

 

The anticipation of pain and joy never exist anymore. They just there and the keep on walking. They know not of where they are going and where they came from is no more.

We know of their pain, it is as evident to us as 

Our own fingers on our hands. The resounding song of despair is so loud. So loud in the loud silences of our minds and we keep on watching. 

 

I look on, still watching and I think again. Where they without names? 

I ask again, to myself. Were they out names?

Those without names. 

 

© Anawana Haloba 2007