It Begins

They told me never to write about a man
Or let my words be all I own;
Perhaps a woman shouldn’t hold the type of power
That toys with the elusiveness
Of holding,
Yet setting free
With words

© elena andrean

This is part of a poem from my project #Equilibrium.

IV. Wonder in the Favela

Arrival to the Favela

The sun shone high over multicolored rooftops.
Every window, every wall glazed in a different shade, a moasic neighborhood studded into the side of a mountain.

Eyes wide with wonder, Abia absorbed it in as moments.

Children ran in circles, through open hatches, climbed out of broken windows and scrambled over the top of roofs. Some with miniature aircraft’s made from debris above their heads, others with outstretched arms and eyes of imagination.

Women bathed in shallow pools of cloudy water, where others washed clothes on sprig boards, ringing out the excess and setting them to dry on dusty stones.

The air smelt of soot and the scent of tobacco lingered. There was not one man Abia saw without cigarillo. But every now and again the sweetly sharp scent of citrus would coat her nostrils, Oranges and Lemon being sliced and sold on sticks two shacks away.

Through all its noise, Abia caught many languages from many tongues that she did not understand.

A kaleidoscopic maze, she took it in breath by breath.

© elenaxtina.com, 2015 in Skies over A Shanty Town

VIIII. Sicilia In Childhood

The Story Torcello told Tomaso

The island was a patio door that opened into a thousand stories.
Rock pools laced the coastline, waters of plunging deep blue and silver,
brimming with all manner of exotic sea life.
The marble coloured cobbled streets would lure with the sweet smell of roasting chestnuts, freshly picked from Castagno dei Cento Cavalli (The Hundred Horse Chestnut).

In the summer, his mother would send him to forage for spices, sweet cherries, clove corns, peppers and the last of the warm weather’s apriocots.

Every Wednesday, multicoloured tents and tepees rose for Market. A weekly breath of life for the old town square.
Woman busy buying pastrami and fresh foccacia for their husbands, Men bartering a good price for local Arenaria (Sicilian sandstone).

To Tomaso this was hard to understand. Why buy rock when you are surrounded by honey coated cantuccini, coffee bread with crushed pistachios, gelato spheres in pastry cloaks.
As a child, he was tempted with his eyes and led by his stomach.

When he thought he could get away with it (and there was only one time he did not) he would sneakily pocket two warm nougat with jellied almond jam from the stall with the yellow sash posts.

One for him, one for his brother.

© elenaxtina.com, 2015