There is a house in Aurora, Essequibo that cries. Quietly. Without drama. Barely standing, she writhes in the fearsome hot of day; in the face of mocking verdure; ‘gainst swathes of unembellished blue. Passersby stare ahead; rejoice in the lull of narcotic breeze. Disregard her quizzical lamentations: “Who built me, when, how, with what and why? Who and who lived in me; made me their home? Who abandoned me, why? Who are you that sees without seeing that things are falling apart? Are your children to clench their stomaches in a hunger for roots? To hold in their palms a history, ancient scripts without parts; to wonder at the handicap of broken spine; the meaninglessness of the twisting textless 'burrowings' and paling unintelligible ink. Good for the roach. Good for the worm. And to whose benefit, at what cost and to what end, this wilful, withering love of romantic suicide?"
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