Naivo

Tsito

every time i watch the fampitaha , my heart aches, and I can see Sahasoa again, where I spent the first years of my life with the people under the sky. I can see Fara again, who was crowned queen of the competition. Back then, we still rolled the gatestones across the entrances to our fortified villages, every night, before dusk fell. The rice fields were bounded only by the swampland, teeming with life, and by the limits of human labor. That was the age of childhood fancies and the first schools, of bullfighting, nighttime stories, and chameleon battles. What of that now remains? That world is slowly fading from my memory, its edges frayed by the passing years, washed away by the tide of time like the old, sun-bleached bamboo stalks from our fishing rafts. It erodes under the here and now, like our red walls under the monsoon rains.