The bell
tolls for the Angelus,
as I lie
rocking in a hammock,
thinking
of a foetus in a womb.
My eyes
trace the hovering eagles
and the
grey- white clouds
in a
hurry.
The
rhythmic chant
of the
fishermen echo,
while
they pull the nets
laden
with gasping fish;
gripping
hands,
feet
treading seashells
into wet sand,
moving to
the tune of the waves,
a
tight-rope dance of survival.
My feet
now touches
the moist
lush ground,
sprinkled
with a
fresh breath of flowers.
Next to me,
my daughter counts,
the
pieces of sea shells
she
picked on the beach
in the
morning.
I asked
her “How many?”
to which
she replied “Twenty two.”
“I meant
the whole ones...” I remarked,
discarding
the chips
she had
with her more.
“I like
the broken ones too…” she said,
in a tone
of utter seriousness
and asked
me,
“Don’t
you?”
My eyes
met hers,
and the
rhythmic chant
echoed
again…
