The Village

Flickr Image by Rita Crane

Their quiet existence
Was based on tradition,
Fuelled by superstition,
And bound by ignorance.

Gossip, so relished, was a distraction
Hard work their survival,
Religion their dictator,
And villagers their judge.

Food, the core of existence
Moved beyond tasty delights
And was made humbly and with love.
It was their way of touching a soul.

Migration came from necessity.
Homesick and lost they resisted change,
And like an ex-lover’s obsession, never let go.
So with their minds indelibly scarred,
Their memories interminable,
And their psyche impermeable,
They brought their village
To the new land.

Copyright (c) March 2011 Norma Martiri

Form: Free Verse


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