On the night of high cloud,
buzzards ride warm thermals,
Narapho ignites a scepter of stars
and God shields his eyes.

Old women hold hands, pray for the rains.
Men kiss at the river mouth, unborn shift.
Movement wakes a heaviness tired of waiting.

Smoothing ripples of taut belly skin
legs bound, she cries in layers.
Each wave blurs,
carries her beyond willingness,
beyond the stubbornness of woman.

Up, up towards the buzzards
and the magic of this special night.
Always hopeful for the harvest,
ever hopeful for the children
Narapho opens his arms.