Oh these days I am lost in recurring memories as if my ancestors are dragging at me from afar and they are pulling at my clothes , my loose garments that trail in the breeze of my descent of unknown hills, where footfall seems almost untouching like floating feet from a weightless body and my mind spins, widdershins and the mountains unfolding beneath me give me a sense of untouchability and languages unknown to me chatter at me, these burdened fleet of foot women like scrub birds on the run of escape, low to the ground laughing as I chase the illusion of their guidance, is it the insane root I have eaten, am I captive without being in irons, this country that holds me and then lets me loose, grasps me in Brobdignagian fists and squeezes the grey matter out of me and I am lettuce limp, seeking footholds in alien slopes rolling down into unfriendly terrain, the smoke of wood fires, dung smouldering, the hand patties prised from walls when dried in the sun, patterns of rounded scars splattered on smooth painted rendered walls, dried hand marks in the brown dung like the blown ochre images in the northern caves of the country from whence I have just arrived. Lingering images that bespeak of different times slowly fading but lingering long enough to be rediscovered by those who follow them.