Braids of Thirst   

She had long braids, 
stretching like rivers of golden wheat, 
each strand telling the story of her childhood, 
of her mother’s fingers weaving them 
as a farmer plants a seed in thirsty soil. 

But the water was gone, 
and the streams in her eyes ran dry, 
so washing her hair 
became a luxury, a dream. 

The braids grew heavy, 
storing dust and ash, 
and the little girl wept: 
“I want to wash my hair 
like birds wash their wings in the rain.” 

But the rain did not come, 
nor a bar of soap in the camp, 
nor a drop enough to cleanse a single tear. 

Then, in a silent moment, 
she sat before the broken mirror, 
raising the scissors as one raises a sword over memory. 
She cut each braid… one by one, 
letting them fall to the ground 
like small bodies without graves. 

From that day on, 
the girl no longer cried, 
but the tent wept for her, 
and the wind carried the scent of the severed braids, 
as if it were a secret funeral, 
attended only by absence.