the witch child
This is a story about a child. It is not the story of a country nor its people.
For each of these reflects the human race
He is only two years old though in his size he looks like a toddler.an infant
Though you can tell a tale from the eyes, a mirror to the soul, a bridge between the temples of our bodies, the temples of the soul are even older. No one know just how old.
Or how we got there.
For this moment we are the only ones here
He is called Hope and in his culture being accused as a witch happens to many children. When they can not succeed to remove the evil eye these children are often tortured, abandoned by their families, by their whole village
I am shattered and stricken with a grief. With anxious disbelief.
How can abandonment happen. I understand there are cultures within cultures, there are beliefs beyond belief. But this, a babe seemingly lost and aware of his abandonment. How a god can decide this I have no words for this
I am struck as by lightning with the aura of serenity of this child that has seemingly accepted his destiny. The inquisition still exists so does the severity of its tortures.
History is repeating itself
The devil still wears a liturgical garment, a dress called holy. Though at the same time the devil could sit at your dinner table scraping up the grease from his plate.
Where is the sweat, the salt, the blood, where are the tears?
Scalping truth, scalping the sightings of Herne
you are still alive
saved by an aid worker named Anja
Kindness is still an act of mercy
did you get all your coloring pencils sharpened today?
Why is the sky blue?
It is me sending a kite
from my sky to yours