“Born of the wind.” They say I was born of the wind.
Like this artificial stem-cell planet. I was born of science’s incantations.
I have no past, no future. Only this hunger, this taste and pursuit.
For blood. There goes that teflon-coated fugitive cat!
Run, mongrels, run! Run like that cat has stolen our fire!
Nothing in this world mocks our misery more. Nothing as eatable as that.
Run or we die of starvation. That beautiful banyan cannot feed us.
What point in admiring its beauty? When our eyes have collapsed of our famine?
There he goes through the flowers. Don’t lose scent of his tracks.
Smell the cat, the coffee and our spit. He’s our lunch, supper and snack.
Or will it be another famished evening? For our howls are insufficient.
Our lungs and our legs will not last another day. The cat is thwarted!
Quick! he turns to the banyan! But his scent muddles.
This impending odour of an old-fashioned man. With an old-fashioned gun.
My ears ring deaf of his shots. My guts empty of its emptiness.
“Borne of the wind,” they say. Now with a whimper, I am gone with the wind.
Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Tuesday, February 25, 2014