Some stories should be handed down, written by compassionate hands, told from female lips.
Ismael and Sudan.
His first 37 years, its ghosts, 300,000 deaths, 4 million homeless, life, food, future.
deep voice, body panther hands "murderess", scars visible (or not), listening in silence without interrupting.
It 'nice, oh and if'. No doubt, no subjectivity ', without comparison.
almost scary.
I need guhwah slowly and does not leave my sight for even a second. Never.
They are there 'without being able to run it' hide. And the parts. He knows, he knows everything.
You know the smell.
A continuous and deep background of drums, their music, women cook on the floor and laughing, children screaming from the garden beneath a bright orange sunset.
I am the host, the only white I'm black.
I am black. I am a survivor. And I'm wandering. I am a refugee.
, there goes' my talent, my torment. This passion that makes me feel as if things explode inside.
YOU SHALL RISE ...
