Song of the Andoumboulou: 304

By | 1 May 2021


In our little church it was all as if nothing, our little
troop, our little brigade. We were each the aban-
doned girl or boy lamenting our once athmic ambition,
free and the saturated breaking the world. A light
rain was coming down, democratizing the sun’s after-
math, issuing from when the birds were given beaks
seemed, the birds who would always be there… Soon-
come beans and rice was our moot sustenance. Ravenous
orphans we continued to be. What it was to be we were
guiled by but persisted. The word “moment” cut every-
one’s lips and made them bleed, pecked on by birds, the
birds having left and come back, the birds who were never

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