The Mothers tell a story of a land so blessed with riches
that one could not raise your face midday. The brightness
of the sun, the lush greens, the saturate, vibrant colors
were too much beauty for the human eye. Food was so
plentiful it dropped quietly from the trees, with no effort or pain.
The animals who graced the forests and savannas moved with
a majesty unseen in any other land. The air creatures filled the
sky with drama, music, and exquisite movement.

With all of the many blessings the men’s souls became lazy and
withered. Atrocities were inflicted on tiny babies, innocent
children, and the women who dared to protect them.
The mourning cries became louder than the wild animal calls,
the healing rain, or the bird song.
The men of power turned their backs and rejoiced in the piles
of treasure they had amassed on the backs of their poor.
When they looked out from their palaces, they were surprised
to see nothing but red marks on the marble of their verandas.

And yet, even as the blood flowed like rain from their hands,
their only foolish response was “Why God, why?”.