Like a prophet lays awaiting the saviour, she sat there, close to the wall and a little bit to the corner. Even though the sand and dirt where she sat smelled of urine from passersby to the market just across the street. Even though it’s dry and hot by the sun day and day.
Like a prophet lays await for the saviour she sat there, close to the wall and a little bit to the corner. The little nook that fits her slim figure so well. Hidden in plain sight, she bore the hunger and the pain that creeps deeper into her bone. She bares with the darkness that robbed her of security and confidence. She bares with the fate that ebb and flow, cutting through the rock of her hope.
One day, that hope will all turn to dust; carried away by the wind. When that time happens, she will bend her knee, lean on the wall, take a deep breath, and let the final pang of the desperation take her away to meet her freedom.
But like a prophet lays await for the saviour she felt the hand that touch her head, she heard the voice that called her name, she knows the time has come to see her fate.
So she sprang onto her skinny legs and pushed her cheek toward that hand, she gathered her fading strength and walked toward that voice, she followed the footsteps all the way.
She wouldn’t take any food, she clung to my legs, she rubbed on me all over, back and forth and she chased me when I tried to walk away. So I lifted her up, and found out why. She is blind, and she has a cold. She cannot see, and she cannot smell.
I took my jacket off and wrapped her close to my chest. My lady, how many times have you done this? Gathered all your courage and try to find some help, but help walked away from you? How many times have you cried in silence, when it’s hope that you ask for and disappointment is your answer? How many prayers have you chanted, but no one cared to listen?
Like a prophet lays await for her saviour she leaned on me, still, quiet, all the way through the hectic market and into busy roads, as we climbed to that hillside we would ask her to call home.
She has little left to gamble, though little left to lose.
And so like a prophet waiting for her saviour, she found her way to the side table just beside the kitchen counter and learned to sit at the corner.
Like a prophet waiting for her saviour she will sit upright, until we lift a plate to her nose, and nudge her front leg to tell her where to go.
Like a prophet waiting for her saviour, she will curl on the side, listening, listening. And when she hears our voice she will spring to her feet and welcome us with rubs and cheeks.
Like a prophet meets her savious, she can now let go of her longing days.
And weave new life where there is only peace.