If you were mine
(for my paternal grandparents)
Perhaps this is how
my grandparents met. Perhaps, this too,
was their love song.
So, I say your name.
Mikale – but for the life of me you can’t
understand why I’m
reaching out to you like this. Why I
find you interesting (and sensitive).
Your face and hands,
wise, interesting (and sensitive)
inside your leather jacket. In your presence, I’m tongue-tied. Don’t
know what to say.
So, I talk about
everything and nothing at the same time. I think about
the fact that I don’t swim anymore.
I think about the fact
that you’re a man, who lives and builds and breathes and eats
with the desire of a man.
Abigail George has two books in the Ovi Bookshelves,
“All about my mother” & “Brother Wolf and Sister Wren”
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The cheer was always going to be qualified. The bubbles would be less effervescent, more a case of relieved sighing rather than frothy exultation. After another electoral hack, and another round of threats, the French election was being played out in an era that may, in time, be given the Trump name.
The pollsters did rest a bit easier after the election result, with Emmanuel Macron outdoing his contender Marine Le Pen by fifteen percent. Their soothsayers have been failing of late, and this result provided some form of revival. But what it did show, as it did in the United Kingdom, is that the battle between the forces of nationalist nostalgia and autonomy, and the market model masquerading as prosperity and democracy, will continue to rage.
In any other set of circumstances, it would have been seen as thumping, clear, and unquestionable: a 66 percent approval for Macron, with Parisians going the whole hog with 90 per cent. But such are the times that the 34 percent, left unattended to the north and south of the country, may well become the future governing power, a disease that takes hold, and eventually conquering the host.
While it was second highest score in the second round of a presidential vote since 1965, Macron’s margin of victory becomes less significant when compared with that of Jacques Chirac’s 82.21 percent in 2002 over Marine Le Pen’s father. An unescapable fact is that 11 million votes were cast in favour of Le Pen.
Read the whole article in Ovi Magazine, HERE!
On the day I was born, The War began. Or, better to say – The War began when I was born.
Oh, how sweet was ignorance, which has let my poisoned seed to grow in the infected womb.
At the beginning, I gave them the small conflicts, caused by my impatient crying, spread with my false sweet smiles. I knew so well how to win in this game.
I’ve had the knowledge imprinted in my genes. It was written in my existence. Everyone forgot but I knew…
Oh, how sweet was oblivion, which allowed me to walk unharmed on the unchanged paths of the history, carrying the toxic legacy of my predecessors.
I was growing, seducing miserable souls, trampling over their ashes, rising to the level of the Creator himself.
Each step brought more victims, each movement was a new devastating battle. And I was walking, breathing the scent of my own victory, conquering the world.
Fear and distrust captured the flushed brains in their caves. It was so easy to lure them with worthless images and empty words. It was so easy to divide them.
And then nothing left to them, except bare life they’ve tried to protect, thinking of nothing, wishing for nothing, seeing nothing.
They followed the rhythm of the war, hoping for peace. But the war followed my rhythm, pushing them deeper in their burrows.
And I knew, it won’t stop as long as I breathe.
And I didn’t want to die. I couldn’t have died. I will never die.
I will disappear when the wind comes out of the depths, whirling stagnant air. I will hide from the storm. And the heavy rain will fill drained cracks. The ashes of my victories will cover my seed. The timid creatures will crawl out of their holes, blinded with new light, hungry for new fruits. Licking their wounds, they will build a new illusion of unity.
They will forget…
And then I will come back, with the toxic legacy of my predecessors.
Oh, how sweet is ignorance…
Oh, how sweet is oblivion…