So it has been, so it will be.

The ancient hag and the child crouch under the thorny acacia tree,

with the show soon to begin the men

from a distance safe,

gather on the crest

of the hill.

Down below, with a thorn,

and the delicate dried gut of a gnarled rat,

she stitches shut

yet another window on the child’s joy.

And between the girl’s wails and the screams

the tears continue to stream and stain the desert floor.

It is done, the ancestral surgeon heralds with delight,

as she picks up her bundle of pride,

behold, a new woman for the tribe, and the celebrations may begin.

Black clouds roll in from the east,

They roll and roll with the promise of

rain drops to wash away the tears,

and the remains of innocence and peace.

So it has been, so it will be.