To the east of here are the mountains, and really all they do is distort the horizon. On second thought, they are like a plastic sheet, upon which rain has fallen, and which someone has lifted. The rain flows down the creases with increasing velocity. It’s rivulets double in velocity upon intersection. They become small streams and the streams become rivers. The mountains send rain that fell well over there, many miles away, send it cascading our direction. Too little and our crops crumble. To much and our dwellings drown.
To the east of here are the others, and really all they do is sing. Truly all they do is sing. Though, unlike the mountains streams, there is nothing to carry their song to our ears. Why they sing we don not know. Neither do we care. The others carry on their own life. And they never venture here.
To the east of here I travel, for I’ve nothing else to do.
Last year the rains were little, this year the howlers blew.
My crumbled crop is washed away, My liveliehood destroyed.
I’ve packed my things and said farewells, I’m off to see the world.
To the east of here I wander. Toward the songs of the others.
The songs of the others, I’ve only heard about.
I hope that they are musical, and better than a shout.
I hope to find some beauty in the lands that they inhabit.
I hope to find a place to live, and some food other than rabbit.
So…
To the east of here, with my future near, I set off for the mountains.
Where rivers begin, and songs don’t end.
Where the others lie in waiting.
Where I hope to find a home.
A wife.
A future.
All, to the east of here.
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