Xirra pulled out a book.
“I want you to listen to this,” she said.
“Shésti shishi-shishi shésti.
Mastikokopa yo yobaska.
“Mastikokopa--” she stopped.
And I finished, “byo soklo.”
“You know the poem!” she said.
I did. I don’t know how.
She read inside. The poems talked of purple meadows, swirling air, situ and xirra, and what is real. And I knew every one, every word, every breath.
“Did Situ read these to me?” I asked.
“Most likely,” she said. “She would have read these poems to you and Pabatuotuo, your brother. Do you know who wrote these poems?”
I felt the shuddering begin again. I did know. I didn’t know the poet’s name, but I knew the source in every cell and every strand of DNA that spiraled through me.
“A long time ago,” she began, “two brothers lived, one a warrior, one a sage. These poems were written by the sage. These are the poems of Baxin’ivre. Besides his words and his teachings and the influence that spread throughout every aspect of our culture, not much remains of Baxin’ivre, except a shroud which had been wrapped around him. From this shroud, eighteen years ago, enough tissue sample was gathered to create one bizoo. To create you.”
Translation of the poem:
Wind listen-listen wind.
All alone isn’t pain.
All alone is