it's just a lyrical lie...
Aug. 9th, 2007 04:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wellownedbkupmore slave verse
Her feet are bare, hot and sticky with new abrasions from the transport. Her hair is braided close to her head, shorn close at the hairline. She's sitting in the middle of a huddle of children, few older than her in the mix. She's humming softly, barely heard amongst the cries and whimpers of confused babies far from home. There are a few others like her, holding themselves just that much distant that they don't flinch when the portal to the wagon is thrown open and white-hot, bright sunlight fills the area. Her feet are bare and her hair is short and she's just been singled out with a select few by not crying along with the others.
Vague shapes with legs, dressed in muted earth tones and matching the walls around them steer her and her newest companions (5 boys and 2 girls that had also been separated from the first group) along endless adobe halls. The rags they've worn for the interminable journey are taken away shortly thereafter and they are left to wait again. She presses herself into a far corner, her eyes warily watching the others while her fingers make sharp designs in the dust of the floor.
The time stretches long, and the others start drifting off to sleep one by one. She stays awake enough, aware enough, for a while longer. Her eyes briefly catch the glance from the muddy brown eyes of one of the boys, relatively in a similar position on the opposite corner from hers. There's a brief flicker of something like acknowledgement before their eyes pass on to other things.
When the room is more in shadows than light, someone new fetches them. There's another separation, another change in their groupings, as the girls are torn from the boys. She spares another glance and thought for the dainty, muddy eyed boy before she is forcibly moved to yet another empty room of sandy stone.
Her feet are bare, hot and sticky with new abrasions from the transport. Her hair is braided close to her head, shorn close at the hairline. She's sitting in the middle of a huddle of children, few older than her in the mix. She's humming softly, barely heard amongst the cries and whimpers of confused babies far from home. There are a few others like her, holding themselves just that much distant that they don't flinch when the portal to the wagon is thrown open and white-hot, bright sunlight fills the area. Her feet are bare and her hair is short and she's just been singled out with a select few by not crying along with the others.
Vague shapes with legs, dressed in muted earth tones and matching the walls around them steer her and her newest companions (5 boys and 2 girls that had also been separated from the first group) along endless adobe halls. The rags they've worn for the interminable journey are taken away shortly thereafter and they are left to wait again. She presses herself into a far corner, her eyes warily watching the others while her fingers make sharp designs in the dust of the floor.
The time stretches long, and the others start drifting off to sleep one by one. She stays awake enough, aware enough, for a while longer. Her eyes briefly catch the glance from the muddy brown eyes of one of the boys, relatively in a similar position on the opposite corner from hers. There's a brief flicker of something like acknowledgement before their eyes pass on to other things.
When the room is more in shadows than light, someone new fetches them. There's another separation, another change in their groupings, as the girls are torn from the boys. She spares another glance and thought for the dainty, muddy eyed boy before she is forcibly moved to yet another empty room of sandy stone.
