Mafarki – Letter To Rider
A Rider Starts His Journey…
He goes forth onto a path. Trudging on, slowly, unsurely. From the Far East, the sun rises and with it the trees awaken, howling a low tune. Blood orange against sea violet, a song of ash and clay. The children of the wind know this plea, and blowing towards him, they carry the voices of those who came before them, those who once were and those who will never be again. A stern warning, a raging repercussion.
Rider! Your ancestors speak to you, they know, they know. You hear what they’ve heard, seen what they’ve seen, and yet you prove not to perceive. Letters, lingering upon the length of your limbs, between the bent bones of your back, in the curves of your curls and carved into your core. Pure poetry paved upon your path, yet you choose to forget.
You hear them through the cries of the children carried in the winds, the songs of the sisters swept by the seas, the rattling of rocks rolling on riverbeds and yet you fall into folly.
The straws from your grandfathers hut greet you O’ rider, for they too know what you choose to forget. They see more than the blind bricks you like to build. No rigid roof for the remarkably righteous.
The clay from your grandmother’s pot greet you dear rider, they too know what you do not remember. They hear more than the stubborn steel you like to shape. No sharp sword for the soft spoken.
The journey is long, but the rider carries on. The world starts to fade, day turning to dawn, and the trees slowly swing as though waving at the sounds of daytime dancing away in the billowing breeze. The rider moves a hand to his satchel, slinging it to his side and away from his chest. He considered leaving it behind. It seemed to be filled with stones that weighed him down. Yet he bears the burden, with the wisdom that it was not his alone. The smooth surface of a single bead of sweat forms on the forehead, little pearls of liquid knowledge sacred and pure. They trickle down, twirling little trails. Trails for forgotten things to find their way back home. Fork in the road, this way or that. Stepping and strolling, then striding so surely. Choose to move forward or find a way back?