Born and raised with tough skin, we don’t cracks, cracking sounds of the pot, we reach for the cover to prevent water from overspilling to feed the thirsty ground. This year too the water has not come and like every year we put our prayer in our back pocket and in these rough time times we put them out, and blow on them hoping like seeds they will scatter and bud a future for hungry minds and stomachs.  These prayers are our hope. By water we grow, by water we build, by water we birth. We walk the mile to the empty field single file. Led by the children, the sounds of their rumbling stomachs match the beats of the elders’ footsteps, the women’s  subdued voices a soothing breeze in the dry heat. Single filed, the women march  continued, toward to field all with one word in their heart: tomorrow.


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