"Unitsi!-Mother!" The small raven haired girl sobbed grasping the hem of her mother's buckskin skirt through the bars. Her bottom lip quivered in fear and her eyes were filled with tears.
"Aya nasgi nihi unitsi!-I am not your mother!" The woman shreeked ripping away from the desperate childs grasp. As quickly as she had sold her daughter, she turned her back to her and walked away from her childs' screams.
"Unitsi." The young girl whimpered once more. She was suddenly flung to the corner as the cage she was thrust in was lifted up and placed in a wagon. She watched helplessly as she rolled away from all the things and people she loved but never loved back.
No one looked twice her way as the wagon made down the street heading further and further away from her home village. Oh how she would miss the scent of smoke as it curled high into the air and the beat of her native drums playing a pleasant tune to which the children danced.
Even if someone had felt a twinge of guilt for the small girl curled up in the far corner of her cage the Tsalagi were a proud people and would never dream of dropping to their knees and beg for the childs freedom.
So it was that Bhairavi watched in great sorrow as everything she had ever known and loved grew smaller and smaller. She was powerless against it all. So, so, powerless! Bhairavi thought clutching the bars of her prison tightly.
As she was dragged away, something rose up into the sky that day. It wasn't viloent, melovalent hate but something so beautiful it made the world freeze and pause to listen. It wrenched out tears from even the driest and coldest of eyes and made people clutch their chests in agony at the sorrowful voice that rose up to the heavens.
Bhairavi was wrong. She wasn't powerless. She had the power of song.
© Copyright 2016 TheGrowlingStomach. All rights reserved.
Book / Flash Fiction
Poem / Other
Poem / Poetry
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