Fifteen years ago, on a sun-drenched winter's day, I partook in a women's procession to the lone waterfall in the region. But when we arrived, we were met with the stark reality of drought and scarcity, with no sign of the waterfall's customary majestic flow. Our mountain range had never intersected with the winter rains, leaving us with only the meager water that pooled at the base of the falls. The women set about gathering the meager remnants in buckets to bring back to their modest ponds near their dwellings. Meanwhile, I slipped away to play hide-and-seek with the sun, searching for the ideal hideaway. I ultimately found refuge in a petite cave that overlooked the pond. As I sat cross-legged, watching the scenery unfold, I noticed something extraordinary. The cave wall bore an inscription that eluded my understanding, but I felt inexplicably drawn to it nonetheless. Though I couldn't decipher the message entirely, I committed it to memory and began frequenting the cave, convinced it held the key to an alternate realm.
"This rugged land, barren of verdure and plagued by dry winds, yet thrives under the watchful eyes of the silent sentinels, who embody the gods of Athtar in their regal garb, tirelessly tending to it every moment. Amidst the clamor for the sun's blessings, the women remained silent, casting their eyes upon the sky and walking alongside it, light as feathers. Even as their strength waned, they descended towards the earth with grace, much like they ascended towards the stars, transforming into everything and nothing all at once. Meanwhile, I was confined to a pot, hemmed in by the desires of those around me, and my steadfast roots turned me into a bonsai, pruned and trimmed like a mere decorative shrub. Take heed, dear oak, lest you too become a bonsai, for they bear no fruit."
As I pored over these words, I repeated them incessantly, even though their significance eluded me. However, one thing was abundantly clear - I refused to metamorphose into a bonsai, trapped in a pot without the ability to yield fruit. Instead, I resorted to writing missives to the silent guardians whenever I felt despondent or downtrodden. Through these letters, I reminded myself that the true custodians of this land were the women, who safeguarded us and anchored us even as the world crumbled around us. They provided me with a sense of security and solace, and I knew that as long as they stood watch, everything would be alright.
Endless Chapter on a Tombstone With No Tomb “To the Silent Guardians”
I wander in my own private purgatory,
Lost between what I should be and what I am,
The stars avoid me, I avoid talking to you,
As I wake to the color of your sacrifices.
I watch her closely, hoping to be a member of your bright path,
Torn between waiting to be with you and the trembling of white flags around me.
I write stories of your hidden hymns, so we do not forget,
Promising to shed light on your suffering, a symbol among all.
Years later, returning to your land, I am left empty,
Questioning if these women ever truly existed.
I try to rid myself of the burden of hope and belief,
Dropping your legacy amidst the horrors endured by your companions in every home.
I see fear-tinged laughs in glass bottles,
And the weight of your sacrifice becomes heavier still.
And all the splitting of their braids and the trembling of their destinies.
Whenever one of them spins a colorful story,
The ascetic child stops her from recounting the details.
It's an expression of terror that could end their attachment to your roots and drown them in basil flowers, prayers, and wailing.
You cry every summer for this land, and when the whip erodes before your eyes, you are filled with hope in me, in us.
But then, we soon spin the story again for them.
That's why I look away from the violet and blue whenever I see one of them. My pockets are full, and I can't find any cloth to wrap more!
As they crowd around me, I pray for my blindness and deafness.
But whenever I find new branches, they tirelessly sing the same hymns.
I gain clairvoyance and see beyond walls, offices, buildings, and mountains.
I hear them in my dreams until I lose my powers.
I can't stand between them,
But I want to break the chain that binds Andromeda.
It's the only solution to make more stairs up and not disappear into the cave, and the amulets would disappear on their eyelashes.
And so, I'm waiting for a miracle that brings us back the song of spring, where the oaks don't remain on the banks of rivers in a country without rivers.
In a moment of certainty, I wanted to write something on the wall.
I emptied all my pockets,
And crowds of them came out in succession, rushing in a silent line.
The light was dimming, and there was no chalk, but they carried me up to the ceiling.
I carried a thick stick, covered with plasma, and set it alight.
I faltered and lied that the flames might start in such a thing.
I spat on it!
And when the stick reached me, I had to write on the ceiling:
"There's no way back, the echo will carry us. We'll sing until the dumb are deaf."
I wrote and found no choice but to draw new chords for them, even if they only ring in my ears alone.
That I might sleep a little.
