Blessing.
The skin cracks like a pod.
There never is enough water.
Imagine the drip of it,
The small splash, echo
In a tin mug,
The voice of a kindly god.
Sometimes the sudden rush
of fortune. The municipal pipe bursts,
silver crashes to the ground
and the flow has found
a roar of tongues. From the huts,
a congregation: every man woman
child for streets around
butts in, with pots,
brass, copper, aluminium,
plastic buckets,
frantic hands,
and naked children
screaming in the liquid sun,
their highlights polished to perfection,
flashing light,
as the blessing sings
over their small bones.
Imtiaz Dharker
I actually don't understand it
and the question is...
How does Imtiaz Dharker show us what is important to a culture in 'Blessing'?
Help anyone? x*x
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