Loading
The skin cracks like a pod.The skin cracks like a pod
The skin cracks like a pod. There never is enough water.
Imagine the drip of it, the small splash, echo in a tin mug, the voice of a kindly god.
Sometimes, the sudden rush of fortune. The municipal pipe bursts, silver crashes to the ground and the flow has found a roar of tongues. From the huts, a congregation: every man woman child for streets around butts in, with pots, brass, copper, aluminium, plastic buckets, frantic hands,
and naked children screaming in the liquid sun, their highlights polished to perfection, flashing light, as the blessing sings over their small bones.
© Imtiaz Dharker
The skin splits open like a seed pod. There is never enough water.
Imagine the sound of it dripping, the little splash, echoing in a metal cup, the voice of a gentle god.
Sometimes, a sudden rush of luck. The city pipe breaks, silver water crashes to the ground and the flow is met by a chorus of voices. From the huts, a gathering: every man, woman, child from nearby streets joins in, with pots, made of brass, copper, aluminum, plastic buckets, frantic hands,
and naked children shouting in the bright sun, their shiny skin polished perfectly, reflecting light, as the blessing sings above their small bodies.