Jeremi Biziuk, "kitarumo"

Works:

Texts:

"Through the cold and through the warmth of each day of the year that came,
They worked in silence of the room they occupied,
In the months where the sun lit up the ground beneath, for more hours than the night could linger,
They made trips, back and forth, to gather the static children of the forest's kind,
Let them out to dry and forget all they knew from the days they spurred high into the skies,
Where they towered over all that moved through the grass below.

They sharpened their blades on wet pieces of stone and cleaned them off with stripes of leather,
Carefully storing them in thick rugs where nothing could render them dull again.
They waited for days, so many they lost the count which never was,
But they knew exactly when to start the never ending hours of work.

All that so They could make a home they could call theirs,
From their hands and sweat, the time they would spend
Shaping the stolen children into ones which were theirs.

To feel each spot, each tiny curve

with their bare fingers,

oh, and for what?

That simple thought

has not once crossed

their stubborn mind."