Friday, March 26, 2010
"Muña daughter of the Third Seed"
The sound of the macaws nesting amongst the trees. The creaking roots of the jungle floor, bending to the will of the old growth. Muña, daughter of the first seed, placed her hands across the ancient woven texts, many from the tribes that had lived long ago. Her fingers slowly passed over the stories that had not been read in many years. Stories that are still carried in the sacred winds that shake the leaves and in the the sienna bark of the ceiba tree. Her hand trembled along the worn wood staff, upon which was carved the legend of the traveler, a story which had carried us to sleep many nights before. A multitude had gathered in the shade of the canopy. Only Muña sat in the cascading light of the open days sun. Those who had heard Muna's stories before, had returned expecting to hear her tell of the ancient caves, the sacred fountain of the serpent, or of the great sorcerers of old. But as she passed over a worn tapestry half caked with dirt and age; her hand stopped. A smile appeared across her face and tears shimmered from the wrinkled eyes that were buried in her massive cheeks. She breathed deeply and after a long sigh she spoke,
"Now we shall speak of the life of Khayiri, whose very name means, "compassion."